“I come from New York,” said Tembarom.
“Tha wert born i' th' workhouse, tha run about th' streets i' rags, tha pretty nigh clemmed to death, tha blacked boots, tha sold newspapers, tha feyther was a common workin'-mon—and now tha's coom into Temple Barholm an' sixty thousand a year.”
“The last part's true all right,” Tembarom owned, “but there's some mistakes in the first part. I wasn't born in the workhouse, and though I've been hungry enough, I never starved to death—if that's what `clemmed' means.”
Tummas looked at once disappointed and somewhat incredulous.
“That's th' road they tell it i' th' village,” he argued.
“Well, let them tell it that way if they like it best. That's not going to worry me,” Tembarom replied uncombatively.
Tummas's eyes bored deeper into him.
“Does na tha care?” he demanded.
“What should I care for? Let every fellow enjoy himself his own way.”
“Tha'rt not a bit like one o' th' gentry,” said Tummas. “Tha'rt quite a common chap. Tha'rt as common as me, for aw tha foine clothes.”