“Nay, nay. He’s an iddit.”
“Yes, I know that,” cried Dally vindictively; “and a drunken idjut; but I don’t care for that.”
“He was here to-night, staring in at the corner of the windy there.”
“What, Tom Candlish?” cried Dally excitedly.
“Nay, nay; Joe Chegg.”
“Joe Chegg!” cried Dally, in a tone of disgust that would have cut the village Jack-of-all-trades to the heart. “Who said anything about Joe Chegg? I was talkin’ about young squire.”
“Eh? About young squire? Well, Dally, well? When’s it to be?”
“It’s going to be soon, gran’fa, or I’ll know the reason why; I’m not going to have him playing Miss Leo off against me.”
“Nay, that I wouldn’t, Dally,” cried the old man.
“She’s got to mind, or she may be ill again,” cried the girl, with a vindictive look in her eyes.