The rustics laughed, and sang, “Poor old hoss—poor old hoss!”
“Don’t ee be fools,” cried Joe. “I aint a-going to let ee sing that to-night.”
“Spiff a song, ould un, and don’t be ranty tanty—coom.”
“I bean’t ranty tanty,” said Nat, “but it meks me rankled to think as we ha’ no fitchet pie for supper. We allers yoosed to ha’ it, and I can’t sing wi’out it, nother.”
“We used to ha’ fitchet pie, sartinly,” said the old wood-cutter, “but we didn’t yoose to ha’ such good meat nor such fine plum puddings as we’s had to-day, and there’s no lack o’ beer. Pour him out a noggin and then he’ll sing.”
“There’s something better than that coming. My eyes alive, look ee here.”
“Buckle-my-buff, and a gallon on it,” shouted an enthusiastic clown.
“There’s another coming,” said the girls, as they set it down upon the table.
The beer mugs were speedily emptied, and sent in half-dozens to the bowl, before which a servant lass, ladle in hand, laboured without ceasing.
“My blessing to all on you,” cried Nat, with a devotional expression of countenance.