“Well, an’ ’ow are ter feelin’ by now, like?” asked the old man heartily of George. Receiving no answer, he continued, “Tha should ’a gor up an’ com’ an’ gen us a ’and wi’ th’ wheat, it ’ud ’a done thee good.”
“You will have a bit of this mutton, won’t you?” Tom asked him, tapping the joint with the carving knife. George shook his head.
“It’s quite lean and tender,” he said gently.
“No, thanks,” said George.
“Gi’e ’im a bit, gi’e ’im a bit!” cried the old man. “It’ll do ’im good—it’s what ’e wants, a bit o’ strengthenin’ nourishment.”
“It’s no good if his stomach won’t have it,” said Tom, in mild reproof, as if he were speaking of a child. Arthur filled George’s glass with beer without speaking. The two young men were full of kind, gentle attention.
“Let ’im ’a’e a spoonful o’ tonnup then,” persisted the old man. “I canna eat while ’is plate stands there emp’y.”
So they put turnip and onion sauce on George’s plate, and he took up his fork and tasted a few mouthfuls. The men ate largely, and with zest. The sight of their grand satisfaction, amounting almost to gusto, sickened him.
When at last the old man laid down the dessert spoon which he used in place of a knife and fork, he looked again at George’s plate, and said:
“Why tha ’asna aten a smite, not a smite! Tha non goos th’ raight road to be better.”