“Ah, cut that; don’t go for to be sentimental. You aint come down here to moralise,” cried Cooney. “I say, leave that to some other bloke; it’s out of our line.”
“Perhaps you’re right; but, you know, this place I remember when but a bit of a boy, and I haven’t set eyes on it for many and many a year.”
“At it again,” cried Cooney, with a sort of double shuffle. “Well, I’m blest. It’s the green trees and the dicky birds as does it for you. Makes you feel alloverish like, just the same as ye’d be if yer were once more on your mountain heather—like the man who ses his ’art’s in the islands.”
Mr. Cooney, after this speech, indulged in a prolonged whistle.
“There’s no occasion for that,” observed the gipsy, reprovingly. “We’ve come on very serious business, and must look very grave.”
“Mustn’t indulge in unseemly mirth, as our parson used to say. Werry good, I’m all there—not, mind you, but this is quite a new line of business to me.”
“But you are equal to anything.”
“In course I am.”
“So now keep quiet. Listen. Do you see that little window in that part of the church which abuts out?”
“Yes, I does see it, with these ’ere blessed eyes.”