Clews: But w’at kept thi away from ’ome so long—Surely not the love of thi work?
Allcock: No, ’ardly that, but thi knows ’ow it is hup at the ’all—an’ ’ow they fixes hup everythin’ fur the big party they’re ’avin come ter-morrer—I dunno wat they would a dun if I’d a quit on ’em.
Clews: I ’no wat thi means, mate, I’ve thought miself wot a ’elpless lot some folk are.
Allcock: Aye, all I ’eard ter-day was, “Willyum, ’ave yer killed an’ dressed the sucking pigs—Willyum, ’ave yer finished plucking the geese—Willyum, will yer be sure there are yule logs on ’and fer the party—Willyum, go down to the butchers and bring the roast of beef I ordered—William, this, and Willyum that,” until I’m sick and tired o’ mi own name.
But they’re not a bad lot at that for the mester gave me a Christmas box o’ ten shilling’ an’ I ’ave in this bundle some clothes wot belonged to the little gel w’at died a year ago come Michaelmas, an’ a bran new dress w’ich the missus sent to mi owd woman.
Clews: Mite it be yer ’ad a goose in yer bundle fer yer Christmas dinner, as well as the fine feathers fer the missus?
Allcock: No, Jack, but you ’no and I ’no w’ere there is as fine a dinner waitin’ fer them as knows, as ever come out o’ a pot—and yer ’ave ’eard tell as ’ow the first thing to be dun in makin’ rabbit pie is to first catch the rabbit.
Clews: I understand, Willyum—Make it ten by the clock—at the old place back of the ’all.
Allcock: So long, mate.
Clews: So long.