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Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his ears, until the ironmonger's apprentice bellowed above the rest; "Whoy, bullies!" he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, "didn't I say 'twas catched out in the fields it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an' thou shalt ha' my brand-new cap!"
Kit, the one sailor aboard, here on his own element, wished to lord it out alone. "How d'you feel, Blob?" he called, hoping for the best. "Whoy," said Blob, the breeze in his teeth, "Oi'm that empty Oi can hear me innuds rollin. Oi could just fancy a loomp o porruk fatty-loike." The Parson raised himself. "Swine," he moaned, "have you no soul?" He turned on his elbow.
"'Deed on it is, squoire," replied Bess, "ey wur quite glopp'nt at seet on him. Lorjus o' me! whoy, it's scarcely an hour sin he left here, looking os strong an os 'earty os yersel. Boh it's a kazzardly onsartin loife we lead. Here to-day an gone the morrow, as Parson Houlden says. Wall-a-day!"
Ay'se gotten 't measter's single barrel; and gin I dunna ootshoot measter Draa whoy Ay'se deny my coontry!" "Most certainly you will deny it then, Tim," answered I, "for Mr. Draw shoots excellently well, and you " "And Ay'se shot mony a hare by 't braw moon, doon i' bonny Cawoods.
It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no amazing London accent to the words just the speech of every-day, the sort that they all knew. First, some one in the yard laughed out a shock-headed ironmonger's apprentice, "Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. 'Tis took off pasture over-soon.
"Begorra, thin," he exclaimed, in affected surprise, "did the shpalpeens keep ye awake? Whoy, Oi'd have thought you'd have heard the sorra a sound out here.
What, Yorkshire, is that you? I should ha' thought now, Archer, you'd have cleared that lazy Injun out afore this time!" "Whoy, measter Draa what 'na loike's that kind o' talk? coom coom now, where'll Ay tak t' things tull?" "Put Mr. Forester's box in the bed-room off the parlor mine up stairs, as usual," cried Archer. "Look sharp and get the traps out.
"Fie upon ye, for an ill-favort minx, Jennet," cried Nancy Holt; "yo're jealous o' your protty sister." "Ey jealous," cried Jennet, reddening, "an whoy the firrups should ey be jealous, ey, thou saucy jade! Whon ey grow older ey'st may a prottier May Queen than onny on you, an so the lads aw tell me."
He do say he is a gardener." "A likely tale!" ejaculated the sexton. "Look at his hands. Why, his fingers are delicate and white. Your gardener has horny fingers, and a palm of iron." "Dang it! so they be!" cried Ellis. "Well, I never noticed that afore. Whoy, dame, he may be an impostor And though he be so cruel koind, and deadly fond of the girl, now, he may forsake may "
As a few stragglers had been drawn to the funny scene, and more might be expected, I, and I only, of all the spectators, began to feel some pity for him; the more especially, as I heard a stout, grinning chaw-bacon say to the baker's boy of the village, who asked him what was the matter, "Whoy, Jim, it ben't nothink less than Frenchman's usherman, ha' drawn all Thickenham common on his'n left leg for a stocking loike."
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