“What a lot of stuff one can fancy!” said Dyke to himself. “Why, it’s early yet, and poor old Joe hasn’t got up. I’ll give him such a rouser.”
The next minute he had pulled up, thrown his rein over the cob’s head, as he dismounted, and ran to the open doorway from whence came the crooning sound.
“Morning, Tant,” he cried to the woman, who sat crouched together on the floor.
Then as his eyes caught sight of the pallet in the corner of the room, he shouted:
“Joe, old man, what is it? Are you ill?”
“No makee noisy,” cried the woman; “shoo, shoo, shoo. Baas Joe go die.”