“He ’m happier ’n me or you, I lay.”
“Not him! You should see un glower ’pon me when I gives un ’gude day.’ I tawld un wance as the Poor Rates was up somethin’ cruel since he’d gone in the House, an’ he looked as though he’d ’a’ liked to do me violence. No, he ban’t happy, I warn ’e.”
“Well, you won’t see un sitting under the stars in his white coat, poor auld blid. He ’m asleep under the blankets, I lay.”
“Thin wans! Thin blankets an’ not many of ’em. An’ all his awn doin’. Patent justice, if ever I seed it.”
“Tramp along! You can travel faster ’n that. Ess fay! Justice is the battle-cry o’ God against men most times. Maybe they ’m strong on it in heaven, but theer ’s damned little filters down here. Theer go the bells! Another New Year come. Years o’ the Lard they call ’em! Years o’ the devil most times, if you ax me. What do ’e want the New Year to bring to you, Billy?”
“A contented ’eart,” said Mr. Blee, “an’ perhaps just half-a-crown more a week, if ’t was seemly. Brains be paid higher ’n sweat in this world, an’ I’m mostly brain now in my dealin’s wi’ Miller. A brain be like a nut, as ripens all the year through an’ awnly comes to be gude for gathering when the tree ’s in the sere. ’T is in the autumn of life a man’s brain be worth plucking like—eh?”
“Doan’t knaw. They ’m maggoty mostly at your age!”
“An’ they ’m milky mostly at yourn!”
“Listen to the bells an’ give awver chattering,” said Will.
“After gude store o’ drinks, a sad thing like holy bells ringing in the dark afar off do sting my nose an’ bring a drop to my eye,” confessed Mr. Blee. “An’ you—why, theer ’s a baaby hid away in the New Year for you—a human creature as may do gert wonders in the land an’ turn out into Antichrist, for all you can say positive. Theer ’s a braave thought for ’e!”