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"Us'll take un with us when we're finished here. I reckon yeou'm busy. We'll bide here an' 'tis washin' day with yeou, simly," said Stalky. "We'm no company to make all vitty for. Never yeou mind us. Yiss. There's plenty cream." The woman withdrew, wiping her pink hands on her apron, and left them in the parlor.
Suddenly the keeper passed them at a trot. "Who'm they to combe-bottom for Lard's sake? Master'll be crazy," he said. "Poachers simly," Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy's langue de guerre. "I'll poach 'em to raights!" He dropped into the funnel-like combe, which presently began to fill with noises, notably King's voice crying: "Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir.
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