“Sit thee down, lad,” said Sammy, condescendingly. “Sit thee down, tha'st getten a walk both afore and behind thee. What book 'st getten under thy arm?”
Jud regarded the volume with evident pride and exultation.
“It's Robyson Crusoe, that theer is,” he answered.
Sammy shook his head dubiously.
“Dunnot know as I ivver heerd on him. He's noan scripter, is he?”
“No,” said Jud, repelling the insinuation stoutly; “he is na.”
“Hond him over, an' let's ha' a look at him.”
Jud advanced.
“Theer's picters in it,” he commented eagerly. “Theer's one at th' front. That theer un,” pointing to the frontispiece, “that theer's him.”
Sammy gave it a sharp glance, then another, and then held the book at arm's length, regarding Robinson's goat-skin habiliments over the rims of his spectacles.