The postman was sulky, to say the least of it.
“Pretty thing,” he said, as he flung the letter with scant ceremony in through the open doorway; “pretty thing as I should have to come three-quarters of a mile round to fetch a letter to the likes o’ you!”
“Now, look ’ee here,” said Ransey, “if ye’re good and brings my letters every day, and hangs yer stockin’ out at Christmas-time, I may put somethin’ in it.”
“Gur long, ye ragged young nipper!”
Ransey was dandling Babs upon his knee, but he now put her gently down beside the cat. Then he jumped up.
“I’se got to teach you a lesson,” he said to the boorish postman, “on the hadvantages o’ civeelity. I ain’t agoin’ to waste a good pertater on such a sconce as yours, don’t be afeard; but ’ere’s an old turmut (turnip) as’ll meet the requirements o’ the occasion.”
It was indeed an old turnip, and well aimed too, for it caught the postman on the back of the neck and covered him with slush from head to toe.
The lout yelled with rage, and flew at Ransey stick in hand. Next moment, and before he could deal the boy a blow, he was lying flat on the grass, with Bob standing triumphantly over him growling like a wild wolf.
“Call off yer dog, and I won’t say no more about it.”
“Oh, ye won’t, won’t ye? I calls that wery considerate. But look ’ee here, I ain’t agoin’ to call Bob off, until ye begs my parding in a spirit o’ humility, as t’old parson says. If ye don’t, I’ll hiss Bob on to ye, and ye’ll be a raggeder nipper nor me afore Bob’s finished the job to his own satisfaction.”