War. Run out!
Tho. Aw niver says what aw donnot mane. An' aw'm glad yo're theer, sir; for William he towd mo to stay till he coom back; but aw've not geet so mich time to spare; and so be's yo're a friend ov th' maister's, yo'll mebbe mind th' shop a smo' bit. Aw mun goo (going).
War. I say, old man—your name's Thomas Pearson—ain't it?
Tho. Yigh. Aw yer. But hea cooms to to knaw mo name?
War. I know all about you.
Tho. Ivvery body knaws ivvery body yere! Aw connot stur a fut fur folks as knaws mo, and knaws mo name, and knaws what aw be after. Lonnon is a dreedfu' plaze. Aw mun geet mo lass to whoam. Yo'll mind th' shop till th' maister cooms back. Good neet (going).
War. (stopping him) They want you here a bit. You'd better stop. The man will be back directly. You're too suspicious.
Tho. Nea, maister, thae'rt wrung theer. Aw've trusted too mich—a theawsand times too mich.
War. You trusted the wrong people, then.
Tho. It taks no mak o' a warlock to tell mo that, maister. It's smo' comfort, noather.