“Do you know her?” he exclaimed.
“I know her best o' onybody in th' world. An' I loike her best.”
“So do I,” rashly admitted Tembarom.
“Tha does?” Tummas asked suspiciously. “Does she loike thee?”
“She says she does.” He tried to say it with proper modesty.
“Well, if she says she does, she does. An' if she does, then yo an' me'll be friends.” He stopped a moment, and seemed to be taking Tembarom in with thoroughness. “I could get a lot out o' thee,” he said after the inspection.
“A lot of what?” Tembarom felt as though he would really like to hear.
“A lot o' things I want to know about. I wish I'd lived th' life tha's lived, clemmin' or no clemmin'. Tha's seen things goin' on every day o' thy loife.”
“Well, yes, there's been plenty going on, plenty,” Tembarom admitted.
“I've been lying here for ten year',” said Tummas, savagely. “An' I've had nowt i' th' world to do an' nowt to think on but what I could mak' foak tell me about th' village. But nowt happens but this chap gettin' drunk an' that chap deein' or losin' his place, or wenches gettin' married or havin' childer. I know everything that happens, but it's nowt but a lot o' women clackin'. If I'd not been a cripple, I'd ha' been at work for mony a year by now, 'arnin' money to save by an' go to 'Meriker.”