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Penrose, when we want to feel aar Joe near us, I just taks up th' flute and plays, and he awlus comes. Old Enoch paused, for his voice was thick, and with his handkerchief he wiped away the moisture from his eyes. In another minute he continued: 'Bud, Mr. Penrose, I'd a wurr trouble than oather o' those I've towd yo' on. A twothree year sin' I wor a reprobate.
I wor thirty-five year owd, and hed a tidy bit o' brass, when they geet me to put a twothree hunderd in a speculation. Ay, dear! I wor fool enugh not to let weel alone. I did as they wanted me. Me, and Bill Stott's faither, and owd Jerry o' th' Moss went in together heavy, and we lost every farthin'. I shall never forgeet it. It wor Sunday mornin' when th' news coome fro' th' lawyer.
"Dunnot be so mad," she pleaded, laying her hand upon his arm. "I didn't think to vex ye. I nobbut looked about for the best I could find. They flowers ye didn't seem to set mich store by, and I could on'y get a twothree now and again when theer was nobry about." He shook her off with an angry laugh. "So the flowers were stolen, too! Now, look you, Sally, I'm goin' to have an end o' this.
Penrose, that Betty's faither were fond o' rootin' i' plants, an' as aw'd a turn that way mysel I thought aw'd just walk up as far as his haase, and buy a twothree, and try and hev a word wi' Betty i' th' bargain. So aw weshed mysel, and donned mi Sunday best, and went up. 'When aw geet theer, Betty were i' th' garden by hersel, as her faither were gone to a deacons' meetin' at Rehoboth.
Kettle's boilin', isn't it, mother? You're not in a hurry, are you, mester?" "I reckon I can stop a twothree minutes," said the man. Mrs. Whiteside glanced at him sharply, and her mother clapped her hands together. "Ye're a Lancashire lad, for sure," cried she; "ye speak just same as our own folks up on the moor yon." He hesitated for a moment.
I scarce ever talk i' th' owd fashion now, wi'out 'tis a twothree words now an' then to please mother. Pull up, sir. Will ye pour out the tea, mother? All's ready now." "Nay, fetch me a pot of the wimberry jam," said Mrs. Rigby. "Theer's jest two of 'em left.
But the worst of this arrangement was that when, as it appeared to him, he had just settled comfortably to his first sleep, it was time to be astir again. His uncle thumped at his door, his aunt, from the bottom of the stairs, called out shrilly that if he wanted any breakfast he had best make haste, for she was "goin' to side the things in a twothree minutes."
This lad here, pointing to Mr. Penrose, 'giz us a twothree crumbs betimes; but some on us, I con tell yo', are fair clamming for th' bread o' life. Nowe, but gradely bread, yo' know. Mr. Morell tried to check the brutal volubility and plain-spokenness of Joseph, but in vain. He continued the more vehemently. 'It's all luv naa, and no law. Morell, no leetnins?
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