"Take an' drink, thirsty souls. Niver do I mind the Letterpooch so footed i' my born days."
"'Twas conspirator—very conspirator," assented Old Zeb, screwing up his
A string a trifle, and turning con spirito into a dark saying.
"What's that?"
"Greek for elbow-grease. Phew!" He rubbed his fore-finger round between neck and shirt-collar. "I be vady as the inside of a winder."
"Such a man as you be to sweat, crowder!" exclaimed Calvin Oke.
"Set you to play six-eight time an' 'tis beads right away."
"A slice o' saffern-cake, crowder, to stay ye. Don't say no. Hi, Mary
Jane!"
"Thank 'ee, Farmer. A man might say you was in sperrits to-night, makin' so bold."
"I be; I be."
"Might a man ax wherefore, beyond the nat'ral hail-fellow-well-met of the season?"
"You may, an' yet you mayn't," answered the host, passing on with the mug.