“That, Mester Tom! Why, you know?”
“Why, it’s the old punt!” cried Dick.
“Ay, it’s the owd poont, Mester Dick. What games yow did hev in her too, eh?”
“Yes, Hicky,” said Dick with a sigh. “Ah! those were happy days.”
“They weer, lad; they weer. Owd poont got dry and cracked, and of no use bud to go on the dreern, and who wanted to go on a dreern as had been used to the mere?”
“No one, of course,” said Dick, gazing across the fields and meadows where he had once propelled the punt.
“Ay, no one, o’ course, so Jacob sawed her i’ two one day, and we set her oop theer i’ the garden for a summer-hoose, and Jacob painted her green. I say, Mester Dick, ony think,” added Hickathrift, laughing violently.
“Think what? Don’t laugh like that, Hicky, or you’ll shake your head off.”
“Nay, not I, my lad; but it do mak’ me laugh.”
“What does?”