“Fust time as ever you give me an arm,” murmured Billy.
“Won’t be the last, I’m sure,” declared Will.
“I’ve allus had a gude word for ’e ever since I knawed ’e,” answered Billy.
“An’ why for shouldn’t ’e?” asked Will.
“Beginning of New Year ’s a solemn sarcumstance,” proceeded Billy, as a solitary bell began to toll. “Theer ’s the death-rattle of eighteen hunderd an’ eighty-six! Well, well, we must all die—men an’ mice.”
“An’ the devil take the hindmost.”
Mr. Blee chuckled.
“Let ’s go round this way,” he said.
“Why? Ban’t your auld bones ready for bed yet? Theer ’s nought theer but starlight an’ frost.”
“Be gormed to the frost! I laugh at it. Ban’t that. ’T is the Union workhouse, wheer auld Lezzard lies. I likes to pass, an’ nod to un as he sits on the lew side o’ the wall in his white coat, chumping his thoughts between his gums.”