Next day he met Alfred, and thanked him with warmth, almost with emotion. “There ain't many in Barkington as ever done me a good turn, Master Alfred; you be one on 'em: you comes after the Captain in my book now.”
Alfred suggested that his claims were humble compared with Sampson's.
“No, no,” said Maxley, going down to his whisper, and looking, monstrous wise: “Doctor didn't go out of his business for me: you did.”
The sage miser's gratitude had not time to die a natural death before circumstances occurred to test it. On the morning of that eventful day which concluded my last chapter, he received a letter from Canada. His wife was out with eggs; so he caught little Rose Sutton, that had more than once spelled an epistle for him; and she read it out in a loud and reckless whine: “'At — noon — this — very — daie — Muster —Hardie's a-g-e-n-t, aguent — d-i-s dis, h-o-n — honoured —dis-honoured—a—bill; and sayed.'” Here she made a full stop. Then on to the next verse.
“'There — were no — more — asses.'”
“Mercy on us! but it can't be asses, wench: drive your spe-ad into't again.”
“'A-s-s-e-t-s. Assets.'”
“Ah! Go an! go an!”
“'Now — Fatther — if — you — leave — a s-h-i-l-l-i-n-g, shilling —at —Hardie's — after — this — b-l-a-m-e, ble-am — your — self —not— me — for — this — is — the — waie — the r-o-g-u-e-s, rogews — all— bre-ak — they — go — at — a— d-i-s-t-a-n-c-e, distance —first— and — then — at — h-o-m-e, whuoame. — Dear — fatther' —Lawk o' daisy, what ails you, Daddy Maxley? You be as white as a Sunday smock. Be you poisoned again, if you please?”
“Worse than that—worse!” groaned Maxhey, trembling all over. “Hush!—hold your tongue! Give me that letter! Don't you never tell nobody nothing of what you have been a reading to me, and I'll—I'll—It's only Jem's fun: he is allus running his rigs—that's a good wench now, and I'll give ye a halfpenny.”