‘E wept the sun’s h’eye back agen,
Lest ‘e should never see.‘=
H’I orften ‘um it ter the ‘osses when h’I’m a-groomin’ of ‘em. Sorter soothes ‘em—maikes ‘em stand quiet.”
“I remember,” said Peter; “but here’s what I was going to say: you hav’n’t had an awful lot of youngness in your life and yet you’re—how old, Mr. Grace? Seventy? I should have guessed sixty. Well, it doesn’t seem fair that I——.”
“Nar then, Master Peter! H’it’s fair enough. Don’t you go a-wastin’ o’ yer h’imagination. I don’t need no pityin’.”
“But it doesn’t seem fair, really; so I’m going to make you an offer—a very queer offer. How’d you like to live in the country and get away from Grace?”
“‘Ow’d I like it? ‘Ow’d a fly like ter git h’out o’ the treacle? ‘Ow’d a dawg like ter find ‘isself rid o’ fleas? ‘Ow’d a——? Gawd bless me soul—meanin’ no prefanity —wot a bloomin’ silly quesching!” He paused reflectively. “But a dawg, Master Peter, gits sorter useter ‘is fleas, and a fly might kinder miss the treacle. H’I’d like it well enough; but if there warn’t nothink ter taik me thoughts h’orf o’ meself, I’d feel lonesome wivout ‘er naggin’.”
Peter laughed. “I’ll give you something to do with your thoughts. My Uncle Ocky——.”
Mr. Grace woke up, turned ponderously and surveyed Peter. “That’s h’it, is h’it? That awright. Rum old card, yer uncle! H’I never fancied as h’I’d let h’anyone taik the plaice wot Cat’s Meat ‘eld in me h’affections. ‘E ‘as. Tells me h’all ‘is troubles, ‘e does. Life’s gone ‘ard wiv ‘im since Mr. Widder sent ‘im packin.’ My fault—I’m not denyin’ h’it. We ‘as our glass tergether and we both ‘ates wimmen—or sez we does. ‘E borrers a bit from me nar and then. Mr. Waffles and me is good pals—we ‘as lots in common. You, for h’instance.”
Peter inquired from Mr. Grace where he would be likeliest to find his uncle.