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Saddletree, delighted at having for once in his life seen his wife's attention arrested by a topic of legal discussion "Whoy, there are two sorts of murdrum or murdragium, or what you populariter et vulgariser call murther. I mean there are many sorts; for there's your murthrum per vigilias et insidias, and your murthrum under trust."
"Why, Frank said you shot him through the head." "Oi did thot, but whin we returned to th' hut pwhere he was it's up an' gone he had." "Frank says the body was carried off by his friends." "Mebbe it wur, Oi dunno; but whoy th' ould scratch they wur afther takin' all thot throuble an' risk is pwhat bates me.
"He hath stolen a fortune from his master at the Three Lions and the shilling for him's mine!" "Hath stealed a fortune? Whoy, huttlety-tut!" roared the burly smith, turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at tag around a tree. "Whoy, lad," said he, scratching his puzzled head with his great, grimy fingers, "where hast putten it?"
But now arose a new subject of wonderment, which in a moment was perceived by the whole multitude; and the loud huzzas that had welcomed his approach were hushed in a confused murmur of astonishment. "Zwinge!" exclaimed a hundred voices, as they approached each other; "they be loik one anoother as two beans!" "Whoy, which be which?" inquired others.
"And see, the wizard hath a black hound with him! It may be his wife, in that likeness." "Naw, ey knoas t' hount reet weel, Feyther Haydocke," replied the forester; "it's a Saint Hubert, an' a rareun fo' fox or badgert. Odds loife, feyther, whoy that's t' black bandyhewit I war speaking on."
"Father! mother!" cried George, striking more passionately on the window, "what do you mean?" "Whoy, ha'n't I told thee?" answered the voice that had spoken to him before. "Thou art no zon of ours. They may tell thee who thou art; I can't. We ha'n't been paid for what we have done for thee already.
"Whoy, master," rejoined the other, "thou art so woundy like myself, that had I met thee anywhere but in the middle o' these folk, I should have been afeared that I was agoing to die, and had zeen mysel'. My name is George Prescot, at your sarvice. I coom from three miles down the river there; and what may they call thee?" "My name," replied the soldier, "is Charles Sim.
Old Peter dropped his hook to turn round and look at his young mistress. 'What are you going to do, Peter? she inquired, as she drew near, and saw him take up his tools to resume work. 'Whoy, lop doun these 'ere things, Miss Zusie, he replied, pointing at us contemptuously. 'Oh, please don't destroy them! they are so pretty! was her eager exclamation.
Shelton stood disconcerted, not knowing if he were expected to reply; but the old gentleman, pursing up his lips, went on: "Sir, there are no extremes in this fog-smitten land. Do ye think blanks loike me ought to exist? Whoy don't they kill us off? Palliatives palliatives and whoy? Because they object to th' extreme course. Look at women: the streets here are a scandal to the world.
"We DO go to Putney," said the conductor. "Thin why did ye put me out here?" "I didn't put you out, yer got out." "Shure, didn't the gintleman in the corner tell me I was comin' further away from Putney ivery minit?" "Wal, and so yer was." "Thin whoy didn't you tell me?" "How was I to know yer wanted to go to Putney? Yer sings out Putney, and I stops and in yer jumps."
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