“All right, go on, man,” whispered Barker; “I only said fine himage.”
“As my friend and brother the deppitation says,” continued Sim, “Dicky Glaire’s a fine image to sit on all us like an old man o’ the mountains.”
“No, no, I didn’t,” whispered Barker.
“You did,” whispered Sim. “I heerd you.”
“Go on,” whispered back Barker; “the time has come—go on; beautiful.”
“And the time has come to go on beautiful,” said Sim, waving his arms.
“No, no,” whispered Barker.
“I wish yow’d howd thee tongue altogether,” whispered Sim. “You do nowt but put me out.”
“Go on, brayvo!” cried the men.
“Now, don’t you interrupt me no more,” whispered Sim, in an aggrieved tone; “that aint a bit like as you writ it down, and I shall say it my own way-er. And, mates,” he continued aloud, “the time has come when we’ve got to tak’ our heads from under the despot’s heels, when we’ve got to show ’em ’ow they depends upon the sons of tyle; and teach ’em as all men’s ekal, made o’ the same flesh and blood, eddication or no eddication; and if Dickey Glaire won’t gi’e uz a fair day’s wuck for a fair day’s pay.”