“Tha knows well enough, ’Si, I cannot go away just now, not before next Saturday. Yo’ know what’s fixed for next Saturday.”
“Aw know weel enough, an’ more the reason for a change o’ air, say I.”
“What ’Si, turn traitor and leave our comrades in the lurch?”
“Hard words break no bones, Ben, an’ I, for one, am sick o’ this trolloping about hauf th’ neet through; often as not weet to th’ skin; an’ nawther beef nor beer, nor brass nor fun in it. Aw’d rayther list for a sodger gradely. It’s wearin’ me to skin an’ bone, an’ all for what aw’d like to know?”
“For th’ cause ’Si.”
“Damn th’ cause. Let th’ cause shift for itsen. Aw’m noan a cropper nor a weaver, nor owt but a plain teamer, an’ aw tell yo’ Ben, we’d both be a darn sight better out o’ this job nor in it.”
“But our oath, ’Si.”
“Promises an’ pie crusts wer’ made to be broken aw’n heerd yo’r mother say.”
“But our honour, ’Si.”
“Fine words butter no parsnips, aw’n heard Mary say. Besides honour’s for gentlefolk. It’s too fine a thing for a teamer. Stand ovver, tha brussen owd wastrel!”