“There, sor,” he said, “and all me own picking, except about half of them which Misthress Greenheys sint for ye. Will ye take a few bunches now?”
“Dinny,” said Humphrey in a low earnest voice, “have you thought of what I said to you?”
“Faix, and which? what is it ye mane, sor?”
“You know what I mean, man: about helping me to escape from here?”
“About helping ye to eshcape, sor? Oh, it’s that ye mane!”
“Yes, man; will you help me?”
“Will I help ye, sor? D’ye see these threes outside the windy yonder, which isn’t a windy bekase it has no glass in it?”
“Yes, yes, I see,” cried Humphrey with all a sick man’s petulance.
“Well, they’ve got no fruit upon ’em, sor.”
“No, of course not. They are not of a fruit-bearing kind. What of that!”