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"Shoo's a gooid 'un, is schooil-missus, for all shoo's nobbut fower foot eleven," began Stackhouse; "knows how to keep t' barns i' their places wi'out gettin' crabby or usin' ower mich stick." "Aye, and shoo's gotten a vast o' book-larnin' intul her heead," said Throup. "I reckon shoo's a marrow for t' parson, ony day."
He had scarcely spoken, but an attentive observer could have divined his state of mind by the short, petulant blows he gave to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. Now he stopped in his work, rested his arms on his hammer-shaft, and proceeded, after his fashion, to test the Colonel by questions. "Doesta reckon, Colonel," he began, "that t' schooil-missus is a he-male or a she-male?"
"Well," rejoined the Colonel, "and didn't Mary Crabtree, wheer shoo lodges, insense us that t' schooil-missus had gotten well-nigh a dozen books in her kist, and read 'em ivery eemin?" "Aye, but shoo's noan written 'em same as t' parson has," retorted Stackhouse. "I reckon it's just as hard to read a book thro' cover to cover as to write one," retorted the Colonel.
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