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"Here an hour, and never speak to poor old Martin! I say, sir" and the old man feebly plucks Amyas's cloak as he passes. "I say, captain, do 'e tell young master old Martin's looking for him." "Marcy, gramfer, where's your manners? Don't be vexed, sir, he'm a'most a babe, and tejous at times, mortal."
"A man in ten thousand, he is, an' never yields to no rod. He'll win his way yet; an' I be gwaine to cleave to un if he travels to the other end o' the airth." "I doan't judge un, gal. God knaws he's been the world to me since his faither died. He'm my dear son. But if he'd awnly bend afore the A'mighty breaks him." "He's got me."
She sat with the insensible child on her lap by the fire, where a long-spouted kettle sent forth jets of steam. "This here jelly what I've brought would put life in a corpse I do b'lieve; an' them butivul grapes, tu, they'll cool his fever to rights, I should judge." "He 'm past all that," said Phoebe. "Never!" cried the other woman. "He'm a bit easier to my thinkin'."
He'm a true, good man, and he'm comin' to marry me quick." "Joe Noy?" "No, no, not him. I thot I loved en well till Mister Jan comed, an' opened my blind eyes, an' shawed me what love was. Mister Jan's a gen'leman a furriner. He caan't live wi'out me no more; he's said as he caan't. An' I'm droopin' an' longin' for the sight o' en.
"They look all right for their kind," admitted Ishmael. "Finest in the place. Not like Johnny Angwin's beasts high in the bone and low in the flesh. He'm a soft kind o' chap, sure 'nough, and sick to his heart at having to take to farming toall. He was in a book-shop to Truro, but had to come home when his brother died.
"God help me, what else can I believe now that he is fled." Nicholas sidled up to him with tightened lips. He set two gnarled fingers on the young man's arm. "He'm not fled, Master Lionel," he announced with grim impressiveness. "He'm never a turntail. Sir Oliver he don't fear neither man nor devil, and if so be him had killed Master Godolphin, he'd never ha' denied it.
'Twas a match o' Michael Tregenza's makin', I reckon, an', so like's not, Joe weern't any more heart-struck than Joan. I finds it hard to feel as I ought to Gray Michael, more shame to me. But Joan's failed in love wi' a gen'leman, an' he with her, an' he'm comin' any mornin' to fetch 'er an' an' you must be tawld 'tis time as he did come.
"A letter comed while you was out," answered Chris; "he'm holding his awn, but 'tis doubtful yet how things be gwaine to fare in the upshot." "Be it as 'twill, mother can do more 'n any other living woman could for un," declared Will. As Mr.
I great affection for Euclid, do' a young dog nebber come a near me!" "He's a blackguard! My back is no sooner turned, than the rascal's atop of one of his master's geldings. "He'm werry young, master My'nert: no one get a wis'om fore a gray hair." He's forty every minute, and the rogue gets impudence with his years.
He lubs de wicked ones de best, 'ca'se dey need his lub de most. Yas, my brudders, eben de wickedest, ef dey's only sorry, and turn roun' and leab off dar bad ways, he lub de bery best ob all, 'ca'se he'm all lub and pity.
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