"I'm a misforchnit chap," he said. "I'm a misforchnit chap, Sararann, as nivver had no luck."
"What's tha been doin'?" repeated Mrs. Briarley, with even greater sharpness than before; "out wi' it!"
"Nay," said Mr. Briarley, "that theer's what I've getten mysen i' trouble wi'. I wunnot do it again."
"Theer's summat i' beer," he proceeded, mournfully, "as goes agen a man. He towd me not to say nowt an' I did na mean to, but," with fresh pathos, "theer's summat i' beer as winds—as winds a chap up. I'm not mich o' th' speakin' loine, Sararann, but afore I knowed it, I wur a-makin' a speech—an' when I bethowt me an' wanted to set down—they wur bound to mak' me—go on to th' eend—an' when I would na—theer wur a good bit—o' public opinion igspressed—an' I did na stop—to bid 'em good-neet. Theer wur too much agoin' on."
"What wur it aw about?" asked Mrs. Briarley.
But Mr. Briarley's voice had been gradually becoming lower and lower, and his words more incoherent. He was sinking into slumber. When she repeated her question, he awakened with a violent start.
"I'm a misforchnit chap," he murmured, "an' I dunnot know. 'Scaped me, Sararann—owin' to misforchins."
"Eh!" remarked Mrs. Briarley, regarding him with connubial irony, "but tha art a graidely foo'! I'd gie summat to see a graidelier un!"
But he was so far gone by this time that there was no prospect of a clear solution of the cause of his excitement. And so she turned to Granny Dixon.
"It's toime fur thee to be i' bed," she shouted.