“It isn’t good enough for such as thou,” said Mrs Slee, sharply.
Sim took up the spoon, and with an air of disgust raised some of the soup and let it drop back, exhaling as it did so a most tantalising odour for a hungry man.
“I just come by Riggall’s, the bone-setter’s,” said Sim; “and he says as he won’t hev parson meddling wi’ his trade, if doctor does. Why, he tied up Binney Mawtrop’s hand as he got in the wheel.”
“Yes, and I held a basin and a sponge for him,” said Mrs Slee, eyeing her husband. “He owt to hev let him bleed to dead, of course.”
“Say, owd lass,” said Sim, “is this stuff fit to yeat?”
“Fit to yeat, thou unconditioned fulsome! it ain’t fit for thee. Bread and watter’s what such shacks as thou ought to hev, and nowt besides.”
“Thy tongue’s gotten a strange and rough edge to it this morning, moother,” said Sim, grinning, and longing to convey the spoon to his mouth, but feeling that it would not be consistent.
“There, sit thee down,” said Mrs Slee. “I know what you mean. There, sit down, and don’t get theeing and thouing me about. A deal you care for me.”
This was in answer to a rough caress, as she bustled about, and got a basinful of the soup for her lord, with a great hunk of bread; and without more ado Sim took his seat.
“Oh, I’m not going to yeat this,” he said. “I’m just going to taste what sorter moock he gives the pore out of his bounty.”