“Ay, mester, so long as that bough don’t part; but I’ve got my owd ear full o’ watter, and it’s a-roonning down my neck. But say, mester, it’s a rum un.”
“What is, my lad?”
“Why, it wur ony yesday I wur saying to my Jacob as we’d get the poont mended, and come out here with the handbills and brattle (lop) all the willows anywhere nigh, so as to hev a lot to throost down about our plaäce to grow. Now, if we’d done that there’d ha’ been no branch to lay hold on here, and we might ha’ gone on to Spalding afore we’d stopped. Eh, but howding on theer made me keb.”
(Keb: pant for breath.)
“Are you hurt, Dick?” said the squire.
“N–no, I don’t think I’m hurt, father,” replied Dick, hesitatingly; “only I feel—”
“Well, speak, my lad; don’t keep anything back.”
“Oh, no, I won’t keep anything back, father!” said Dick, laughing; “but I felt as if I’d been one of those poor fellows in the Tower that they used to put on the rack—all stretchy like.”
“Mak’ you grow, Mester Dick,” said Hickathrift, “mak’ you grow into a great long chap like me—six foot four.”
“I hope not,” said the squire, laughing. “Draw the line this side of the six feet, Dick. There: the stiffness will soon pass off.”