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"W'y, gorblimey!" said Hardy, "Ain't that queer? that's jes' wot I wos a-thinkin' . . . Well, Gawd 'elp Sorjint Slavin now!" With which cryptic utterance he resumed his eternal polishing. "Amen!" responded the farrier piously, "Reddy, here, an' Yorkey on th' same detachment. . . . What th' one don't know t'other'll teach him. . . . You'd better let 'em have th' parrot, too."
"Sorjint?" he broke in mincingly "c'n I fall out an' tork t' me sister? garn, Reddy! wipe orf yer chin! . . . though if I did 'appen t' 'ave a sister she might s'y th' sime fing abaht me, now, as she might s'y abaht you to a lydy-fren' o' 'er's, p'raps. . . ." "Say what?" demanded George incautiously.
"'Beg yer pardon, Sir! I sez, 'but if you let 'im go back t' Dyvidsburg I fink 'e'll be quite contented. Seems like 'e wants t' be wiv Sorjint Slavin an' Constable Yorke agin. "'Fink so? sez 'e, pullin' 'is oweld moustache, 'I sure do, Sir, I sez. 'So be it, then! 'e sez, turnin' t' Kilbride, but th' Inspector 'e sez nothin': 'e on'y larfs. An' then they went away."
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