"They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?"
Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our ears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a snatch of country song:—
"Owd shoon an' stockins,
An' slippers at's made o' red leather!
Come, Betty, wi' me,
Let's shap to agree,
An' hutch of a cowd neet together.
"Mash-tubs and barrels!
A mon connot olez be sober;
A mon connot sing
To a bonnier thing
Nor a pitcher o' stingin' October."
"Jenny, my lass," said the old woman, "see who it is. It's oather
'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Dangler's.'"
Jenny peeped through the window, an' said, "It's Skedlock. He's lookin' at th' turmits i'th garden. Little Joseph's wi' him. They're comin' in. Joseph's new clogs on."
Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage,—a tall, strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. His long, massive features were embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the mud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. He was followed by a healthy lad, about twelve years of age,—a kind of pocket-copy of himself. They were as like one another as a new shilling and an old crown-piece. The lad's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and he seemed to have studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his limbs were as big and as stark as his father's.
"Well, Skedlock," said Nanny, "thae's getten Joseph witho, I see. Does he go to schoo yet ?"
"Nay; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw."
"Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?"