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"No more have you, Meaister," retorted one of the biggest of the boys, a rustic lout of sixteen. "You ain't got the plook t' go inside yoursen!"
The vicar, too, could hardly contain himself for joy, and broke down utterly when he tried to thank Jupp for rescuing his little son; while Joe the gardener, not to be behindhand in this general expression of good-will and gratitude, squeezed his quondam rival's fist in his, ejaculating over and over again, with a broad grin on his bucolic face, "You be's a proper sort, you be, hey, Meaister?" thereby calling upon the vicar, as it were, to testify to the truth of the encomium.
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