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Updated: June 25, 2025
And have he carried his inheritance into's grave? And will his skeleton lie warm on account o't? Hee-hee! said Haymoss. ''Tis all swallered up, observed Hezzy Biles. 'His goings-on made her miserable till 'a died, and if I were the woman I'd have my randys now. He ought to have bequeathed to her our young gent, Mr. St. Cleeve, as some sort of amends.
His reproductions of that talk are often intensely realistic. Nearly every book has its chorus of human grotesques whose mere names are a source of mirth. William Worm, Grandfer Cantle, 'Corp'el' Tullidge, Christopher Coney, John Upjohn, Robert Creedle, Martin Cannister, Haymoss Fry, Robert Lickpan, and Sammy Blore, men so denominated should stand for comic things, and these men do.
'Who is that Amos Fry, I think? she had asked. 'Yes my lady, said Haymoss; 'a homely barley driller, born under the eaves of your ladyship's outbuildings, in a manner of speaking, though your ladyship was neither born nor 'tempted at that time. 'Who lives in the old house behind the plantation? 'Old Gammer Martin, my lady, and her grandson. 'He has neither father nor mother, then?
'Still, you can't alter a old-established note that's A or B by nater, rejoined Haymoss, with yet deeper conviction that Mr. Torkingham was getting off his head. 'Now sound A, neighbour Sammy, and let's have a slap at Christen sojers again, and show the Pa'son the true way!
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