"Well, well," said th' owd woman; "they geet 'em reet at the end of o', then?"
"Aye," said Skedlock; "but aw've noan done yet, Nanny."
"What, were'n they noan gradely sorted, then, at after o'?"
"Well," said Skedlock, "I'll tell yo.
"As I've yerd th' tale, this new organ wur tried for th' first time at mornin' sarvice, th' next day. Dick-o'-Liddy's, th' bass singer, wur pike't eawt to look after it, as he wur an' owd hond at music; an' th' parson would ha' gan him a bit of a lesson, th' neet before, how to manage it, like. But Dick reckon't that nobody'd no 'casion to larn him nought belungin' sich like things as thoose. It wur a bonny come off if a chap that had been a noted bass-singer five-and-forty year, an' could tutor a claronet wi' ony mon i' Rosenda Forest, couldn't manage a box-organ,—beawt bein' teyched wi' a parson. So they gav him th' keys, and leet him have his own road. Well, o' Sunday forenoon, as soon as th' first hymn wur gan out, Dick whisper't round to th' folk i'th singin'-pew, 'Now for't! Mind yor hits! Aw 'm beawn to set it agate!' An' then he went, an' wun th' organ up, an' it started a-playin' 'French;' an' th' singers followed, as weel as they could, in a slattery sort of a way. But some on 'em didn't like it. They reckon't that they made nought o' singin' to machinery. Well, when th' hymn wur done, th' parson said, 'Let us pray,' an' down they went o' their knees. But just as folk wur gettin' their e'en nicely shut, an' their faces weel hud i' their hats, th' organ banged off again, wi' th' same tune. 'Hello!' said Dick, jumpin' up, 'th' divle's oft again, bith mass!' Then he darted at th' organ; an' he rooted about wi' th' keys, tryin' to stop it. But th' owd lad wur i' sich a fluster, that istid o' stoppin' it, he swapped th' barrel to another tune. That made him warse nor ever. Owd Thwittler whisper'd to him, 'Thire, Dick; thae's shapt that nicely! Give it another twirl, owd bird!' Well, Dick sweat, an' futter't about till he swapped th' barrel again. An' then he looked round th' singin'-pew, as helpless as a kittlin'; an' he said to th' singers, 'Whatever mun aw do, folk?' an' tears coom into his e'en. 'Roll it o'er,' said Thwittler. 'Come here, then,' said Dick. So they roll't it o'er, as if they wanted to teem th' music out on it, like ale oat of a pitcher. But the organ yowlt on; and Dick went wur an' wur. 'Come here, yo singers,' said Dick, 'come here; let's sit us down on't! Here, Sarah; come, thee; thou'rt a fat un!' An' they sit 'em down on it; but o' wur no use. Th' organ wur reet ony end up; an' they couldn't smoor th' sound. At last Dick gav in; an' he leant o'er th' front o' th' singin'-pew, wi' th' sweat runnin' down his face; an' he sheawted across to th' parson, 'Aw cannot stop it! I wish yo'd send somebry up.' Just then owd Pudge, th' bang-beggar, coom runnin' into th' pew, an' he fot Dick a sous at back o' th' yed wi' his pow, an' he said, 'Come here, Dick; thou'rt a foo. Tak howd; an' let's carry it eawt.' Dick whisked round an' rubbed his yed, an' he said, 'Aw say, Pudge, keep that pow to thisel', or else I'll send my shoon against thoose ribbed stockin's o' thine.' But he went an' geet howd, an' him an' Pudge carried it into th' chapel-yard, to play itsel' out i'th open air. An' it yowlt o' th' way as they went, like a naughty lad bein' turn't out of a reawm for cryin'. Th' parson waited till it wur gone; an' then he went on wi' th' sarvice. When they set th' organ down i'th chapel yard, owd Pudge wiped his for-yed, an' he said, 'By th' mass, Dick, thae'll get th' bag for this job.' 'Whau, what for,' said Dick. 'Aw 've no skill of sich like squallin' boxes as this. If they'd taen my advice, an' stick't to th' bass fiddle, aw could ha stopt that ony minute. It has made me puff, carryin' that thing. I never once thought that it 'd start again at after th' hymn wur done. Eh, I wur some mad! If aw'd had a shool-full o' smo' coals i' my hond, aw'd hachuck't 'em into't…. Yer, tho', how it's grindin' away just th' same as nought wur. Aye, thae may weel play th' Owd Hundred, divvleskin. Thae's made a funeral o' me this mornin'…. But, aw say, Pudge; th' next time at there's aught o' this sort agate again, aw wish thae'd be as good as keep that pow o' thine to thysel', wilto? Thae's raise't a nob at th' back o' my yed th' size of a duck-egg; an' it'll be twice as big by mornin'. How would yo like me to slap tho o' th' chops wi' a stockin'-full o' slutch, some Sunday, when thae'rt swaggerin' at front o' th' parson?'
"While they stood talkin' this way, one o'th singers coom runnin' out o'th chapel bare yed, an' he shouted out 'Dick, thae'rt wanted, this minute! Where's that pitch-pipe? We'n gated wrang twice o' ready! Come in, wi' tho'!' 'By th' mass,' said Dick, dartin' back; 'I'd forgetten o' about it. I'se never seen through this job, to my deein' day.' An' off he ran, an' laft owd Pudge sit upo' th' organ, grinnin' at him…. That's a nice do, isn't it, Nanny?"
"Eh," said the old woman, "I never yerd sich a tale i' my life. But thae's made part o' that out o' th' owd yed, Skedlock."
"Not a word," said he: "not a word. Yo han it as I had it, Nanny; as near as I can tell."
"Well," replied she, "how did they go on at after that?"
"Well," said he, "I haven't time to stop to-neet, Nanny; I'll tell yo some time else, I thought Jone would ha' bin here by now. He mun ha' co'de at 'Th' Rompin' Kitlin'; but, I'll look in as I go by.'"