Jone. He's far larnt i' aught but honesty, mon, that's heaw it is. He'll do no reet, nor tay no wrang. So wi'n lap it up just wheer it is; for little pigs ha'n lung ears.
Sam. Aw'll tell tho what, Jone; he's a bad trade by th' hond, for one thing; an' a bad trade'll mar a good mon sometimes.
Jone. It brings moor in nor mine does. But wi'n let it drop. Iv aw'd his larnin, aw'd may summat on't.
Sam. Ah, well; it's a fine thing is larnin', Jone! It's a very fine thing! It tay's no reawm up, mon. An' then, th' ballies connut fot it, thea sees. But what, poor folk are so taen up wi' gettin' what they need'n for th' bally an' th' back, whol thi'n noathur time nor inclination for nought but a bit ov a crack for a leetenin'.
Jone. To mich so, owd Sam! To mich so!...
Mary. Thae never tells one heaw th' wife is, Jone.
Jone. Whau, th' owd lass is yon; an' hoo's noather sickly, nor soory, nor sore, 'at aw know on.... Yigh, hoo's trouble't wi' a bit ov a breykin'-eawt abeawt th' meawth, sometimes.
Mary. Does hoo get nought for it?
Jone. Nawe, nought 'at'll mend it. But, aw'm mad enough, sometimes, to plaister it wi' my hond,—iv aw could find i' my heart.
Mary. Oh, aw see what to meeons, neaw.... An' aw dar say thea gi's her 'casion for't, neaw an' then.