“Oh, all right; have it your own way. Here, I want a nice strong new bit of leather, about six inches long.”
“What for?”
“Never you mind what for, get up and sell me a bit.”
“Nay, I can’t leave my work to get no leather to-day, Mester. Soon as I’ve putt in these here four nails, I’m gooing over to belfry.”
“What for? Some one dead?”
“Nay, not they. Folk weant die a bit now, Mester Vane. I dunno whether it’s Parson Syme’s sarmints or what, but seems to me as if they think it’s whole dooty a man to live to hundred and then not die.”
“Nonsense, cut me my bit of leather, and let me go.”
“Nay, sir, I can’t stop to coot no leather to-day. I tellee I’m gooin’ to church.”
“But what for?”
“Clock’s stopped.”