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"Oh, there's nowt the matter, Mester Dick!" said Hickathrift good-temperedly, as he picked up the broken harness and examined it. "Why, I could mend all this in less than an hour with some wax-ends and a brad-awl." "Yes, but will you, Hicky?" "Of course I will, my lad. Theer, don't look that how. Go and catch the Solemn-un, and me, and Dave, and John Warren'll get the root up to the yard for you."
"I know it isn't," cried Tom; "but I can't help it. I feel as if I must laugh, and Ha! ha! ha!" He burst into a tremendous peal, in which his companion joined, for anything more comic than the aspect of the "Solemn-un" up to his neck in the bog it would be hard to conceive. "Here, this won't do," cried Dick at last, as he too stood wiping his eyes. "Poor old Sol, we mustn't let you drown.
But Solomon a name, by the way, which was given him originally from its resemblance to "Solemn-un," the latter having been applied to him by Hickathrift refused to hold still.
"Haw haw haw haw!" rang out like the bray of a donkey with a bad cold; and Jacob, Hickathrift's lad, threw back his head, and roared till his master gave him a sounding slap on the back, and made him close his mouth with a snap, look serious, and go on with his work. "Jacob laughs just like our old Solemn-un, sometimes," said Dick merrily. "Come along!"
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