“Why, yes, father, legs are legs, when you tumble into six foot of mud. How you would have dibbled down, if your daddles hadn’t held on.”
“Well then, Tom, recollect that you never sell your father for a lark again.”
Tom laughed, and catching at the word, although used in a different sense, sung—
“Just like the lark high poised in air.
“And so were you, father, only you didn’t sing as he does, and you didn’t leave your young one below in the nest.”
“Ay, it is the young uns which prevent the old ones from rising in the world—that’s very true, Tom. Holla, who have we got here? My service to you, at all events.”