“Aw reckon th’ letter tell that for itsen.”
“Well, hand it here, aw’ll see he gets it.”
“It’s varry partickler, yo’ see,” demurred Jack. “It’s fro’ a woman, an’ oo’ telled me at aw wor to ’liver it to nob’dy but Tom hissen, an’ ’oo’s a woman ’at generally has her own way i’ our parts.”
“Well, yo’ can oather gi’ it to me or wait outside th’ gate till he comes aat. Yo’ll nooan see Pinder afore th’ mills lose.”
“Tha’rt a liar; aw see ’im nah. Hey Tom lad, aw want thee!” and Jack adroitly dodged past the protesting slubber and ran up to Tom. Buckley deemed discretion the better part of valour and took himself off.
“Sithee, Tom,” almost gasped Jack in his eagerness, and casting a triumphant glance at the discomfited obstructionist, “sithee, there’s a letter for thee. It’s fro Betty Schofield at th’ Wakey, an’ tha’s to go back wi me. ’Oo’d ha’ put that i’t’ letter, aw wer to tell thee, but ’oo’d no more ink, an’ th’ pen gate cross-legged.”
And Tom read as follows:
“Deer Tom,
This is to let yew ’no at Mr. Black’s bin took vary bad, an’s frettin’ becos yo’ dont com’ to see ’im. He’s i’ bed; wi’ a stroke i’th reight side, hopin’ you’re well which it leaves me, so no more at present from
Yours trewly,