“And after the way as I’ve tried to make a man of yer,” he said as if talking to his mother earth, which he was chopping so remorselessly.
“It isn’t my fault, Ike,” I said. “I’ll come over and see you again as soon as I can.”
“Who said it war your fault?”
“No one, Ike,” I said humbly. “Don’t be cross with me.”
“Who is cross with yer?” cried Ike, cleaning his spade.
“You seemed to be.”
“Hah!”
“I will come and see you again as soon as I can,” I repeated.
“Nobody don’t want you,” he growled.
“Grant!”