“What, you’d shove it behind yer when the niggers was shooting harrers?” said Smith, thoughtfully.
“O’ course.”
“And afore yer when Muster Rimmer was lettin’ go with his revolver or a gun.”
“Right you are, mate. That’s it.”
“Might keep off a harrer,” said Smith, thoughtfully, “but bullets would go through it like they would through a bar o’ soap.”
“Yah, that’s where you allers haggravates me, Tommy. I knows you’re cleverer than I am, but sometimes you do talk so soft.”
“What d’yer mean?”
“I mean what’s the good o’ you hargying whether a bullet would go through a thick plank or whether it wouldn’t, when it’s on’y a split pole and so many wooden spells. Don’t you see it ain’t a board but on’y a ladder; and I’m sick on it, that I am.”
“Then let me carry it.”
“Sharn’t!”