“Now, don’t thee ask queshtuns, paarson,” he exclaimed; “I tell’d ye I’m sweered, and can’t say owt.”
“I will not ask you anything, Harry,” said the vicar; “only thank you, as I do, for your hint. But where are you going?”
“Sheffle first, Birming after. I’m sick o’ this.”
“Going to get work?”
“Yes, paarson.”
“Why not stop another week?”
“No,” said the big fellow; “I wean’t stay another day. I’m off.”
“You’ve got some other reason for going?”
“Paarson, I wean’t tell’ee owt,” said the big fellow; “theer.”
“Good-bye, Harry,” said the vicar, smiling, and holding out his hand. “I hope I shall see you back again, soon.”