“Is that some on it in they pancheons?” said Sim.
“Yes, it is,” said his wife, sulkily.
“I heered tell on it,” said Sim. “He’ve been a scrattin about at all the butchers’, and buying up weighs of cag mag as they couldn’t sell. I saw a basket o’ stinking bones come up to the gate, and I heerd at the Bull as he’s gotten four beasts’ heads promised. Yah! it’s a shame as such as him should hev a place like this, and five hundred a year.”
“Thou fulsome!” exclaimed Mrs Slee, angrily. “I wean’t stand by and hear parson talked about like that.”
“All raight,” said Sim, sneering; “he’s won you ower then. But what hev you gotten to eat?”
“Nowt,” said Mrs Slee, shortly.
“Here, just take thee scithers, and coot the dwiny ends off my collar,” said Sim, holding up the ragged but scrupulously clean collar of the shirt he wore; and this duty was diligently performed by his wife.
“Some one telled me as the soup meat was covered wi’ maddick bees,” said Sim, as soon as the task was done.
“Then some one telled thee a lie,” said Mrs Slee, sharply.
“Power up a few of it in a basin,” said Sim, after examining the broad earthen pans in which the thick soup steamed. “Let’s see what sorter stuff the downtrodden serf is to be compelled to eat.”