“Now look here, Sim Slee,” said Joe; “I just warn thee to be keerful, for I’m in no humour to be played wi’.”
“Who wants to play wi’ you?” said Sim; “I just come in a neighbourly way to gi’e ye a bit o’ advice, and you fly at me like a lion.”
“Thou’rt no neighbour o’ mine,” said Joe, “and thou’rt come o’ no friendly errant. Yow say yow want to speak to me ’bout my lass. Say thee say.”
“Oh, if that’s the way you tak’ it,” said Sim, “I’m going.”
“Nay, lad, thee ain’t,” said Joe. “Say what thee’ve got to say now, for not a step do yow stir till yo’ have.”
Sim began to repent his visit; but seeing no way of escape, and his invention providing him with no inoffensive tale, he began at once, making at the same time a good deal of show of his bound-up hand, and wincing and nursing it as if in pain.
“Well, Joe Banks, as a man for whom, though we have differed in politics and matters connected with the wucks, I always felt a great respect—”
“Dal thee respect!” said Joe; “come to the point, man.”
“I say, Joe, that it grieves me to see thee stick so to a mester as is trying to do thee an injury.”
“An yow want to talk me over to join thy set o’ plotting, conspiring shackbags at the Bull, eh?”