“How old was he, do you think, Hicky?” said Dick.
“Don’t know, sir, but straänge and old.”
“But why did you take so much interest in him? You never liked the donkey.”
“Nay, bud you did, lad, and that was enough for me.”
“Poor old Solomon!” said Dick, smiling at the recollections the rough tablet evoked; “how he could kick!”
“And so you and young Tom—I beg pardon, sir,” said Hicky, “Mester Tallington—are going to help Mester Marston wi the big dreerning out in Cambridgeshire, eh?”
“Yes, Hicky, ours is a busy life now; but we’re beginning to find people more sensible about such matters. Mr Marston was laughing over it the other day, and saying that all the romance had gone out of our profession now there was no chance of getting shot.”
“Weer he, now?” said Hickathrift wonderingly. “Think of a man liking to be shot at!”
“Oh, he does not like to be shot at, Hicky! By the way, though, who was it shot Dave Gittan? Come, now, you know.”
“Owd Dave Gittan’s been buried twenty year, Mester Dick, so let him rest.”