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Updated: June 17, 2025
"It baffles me where he got the brass frae to pay his rent," said one of the shepherds. "Where did he get it, schoolmaster?" Monsey answered nothing. The topic was evidently a fearsome thing to him. His quips and cracks were already gone. "Where did he get it, I say?" repeated the man; with the air of one who was propounding a trying problem. Old Matthew removed his pipe.
From one of the rosy closets in the wall a fiddle was forthwith brought out, and soon the noise of the tempest was drowned in the preliminary tuning of strings and running of scales. "You shall beat the time, my patriarch," said Monsey. "Nay, man; it's thy place to kill it," answered Matthew. "Then you shall mark the beat, or beat the mark, or make your mark. You could never write, you know."
"It's the laal Frenchman. Come thy ways in," said Matthew. Rotha, who was coming and going from the kitchen to the larder, found a chair for the schoolmaster, and he slid into it with the air of one who was persuading himself that his late advent was unobserved. "I met that Garth that Joe Garth on the road, and he kept me," whispered Monsey apologetically to Matthew across the table.
Neevy, neevy nack, Whether hand will ta tack T' topmer or t' lowmer? "What hantle of gibberish is that?" says Monsey Laman himself. "I is to tumble the poppenoddles," cries the bullet-headed gentleman. And presently the rustic young gamester is tossing somersets for a penny.
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