“He’ll never sit down to that gert buke.”
“You read it then, and tell him if it is good.”
“Me! Well, I do read now and again, an’ stories tu; but Will wouldn’t take my word. Now if Phoebe was to say ’t was braave readin’, he’d go for it fast enough.”
“I may leave it, at any rate?”
“Leave it, an’ thank you kindly.”
“How is Will getting on?”
“Quite well again. Awnly riled ’cause Mr. Lyddon lies so low. Clem told us what the miller can do, but us doan’t knaw yet what he will do.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know himself,” suggested Martin. The name of “Clem,” uttered thus carelessly by her, made him envious. Then, inspired by the circumstance, a request which fairly astounded the speaker by its valour dropped on his listener’s ear.
“By the way, don’t call me ‘Mr. Grimbal.’ I hope you’ll let me be ‘Martin’ in a friendly way to you all, if you will be so very kind and not mind my asking.”
The end of the sentence had its tail between its legs, but he got the words cleanly out, and his reward was great.