"You be a bufflehead, sure enough. The portigal son in the Book comed home-along a beggar in rags, arter swallerin' pigs' wash."
"Ah well, I must ha' been thinkin' o' some other holy man."
"True; Lazarus was the man. Rap at the door, neighbours, and make a goodish noise, or ye won't be heerd through this yer racket."
Susan came to the door in answer to the knock.
"Please, ma'am, we be come," began Pollard, and then found it necessary to swallow.
"Well I never! What be come for?"
"For Maister Polwhele, wishin' 'ee no harm. 'A said he'd jine us when clock said half-past nine, and we'll be obleeged to 'ee if you'll say as we be come for orders."
"Why, bless me, Mr. Polwhele went away when clock strook nine, and as sober as a jedge."
"Well, souls, 'tis 'nation hard to traipse up that hill for nothing at all. We med as well go home-along and get to our beds. We be sorry to bring 'ee out, ma'am, such a bitter cold night, but 'twas to be."
"I wish 'ee well, poor souls," said Susan.