“Ah! it’s all very fine,” said Bob; “but yer dussen’t do that if it weren’t for the river. Why, if I’d got yer here I’d bung both yer eyes up for yer. Yah! yer sneak!”
“Here, you just be off. D’yer hear!” cried an angry voice; and Peter came up, broom in hand.
“She yarn’t,” cried Bob? “Who are you? This ain’t your field. Stop as long as I like. Yah!”
“Wish I was over the other side and I’d pitch you in, you sarcy young vagabond.”
“So are you!” cried Bob. “You dussen’t touch me. Fish here as long as I like. Pair o’ cowards, that’s what you are—pair o’ cowards. Fight either of yer one hand.”
“Wish we was over there,” said Peter; “and we’d make you sing another song, my fine fellow.”
“Would yer? Yah! who cares for you!”
“Look here, you’ve no business to come opposite our place to fish!” cried Peter, “so be off!”
“Yah! ’tain’t your place. Stop and fish here as long as I like; and if ever I meet him anywheres I’ll give him such a licking as’ll make him squeal.”
“You be off!”