"You see, sir, I be nowt but a Englishman,—a poor honest Wiltshire man; you can't make a silk purse out o' a sow's ear, and nothen'll make a furrener out of a home-spun countryman."
"That's true enough, Sherry, but you're right as you are."
"Nay, sir, axen your pardon. True, I ha' still got a bit o' muscle, and can handle a sword featly; but I'm afeard I can't brush a coat nor fold a pair of breeches like a furrener, let alone wearen on 'em. Zooks! suppose a man do get inside of a high prince's goodly raiment, do it make un a whit the better man?—I axe 'ee that, sir. Many's the time I've seed a noble coat on a scarecrow in a turmut-field, sir."
Harry remembered that of late Max had made the care of his clothes his special province.
"Furren ways and furreners," continued Sherebiah, "I can't abide 'em, and but for bein' a man o' peace I'd find it main hard to keep my hands off 'em, be they in prince's fine linen or their own nat'ral smalls, sir."
"You don't like foreigners, eh?—Katrinka, eh?"
Sherebiah was nonplussed for a moment, but recovered himself with his usual readiness.
"Ay, but there's a deal in the bringen up, sir. You can break a colt, and tame wild beasts, and make summat o' crabs wi' graften. Katrinka be a young wench, and teachable; bless 'ee, I've teached her how to fry a rasher and make a roly-poly; her be half Wiltshire a'ready, and sings the song o' turmut-hoein' like a bird. And 'tis my thought, sir, bein' discharged, to have our names cried and do the lifelong deed, and goo home-along and bide wi' feyther."
"Well, if your mind's set on it, I suppose I must be content to lose you both."
Sherebiah ceased twiddling his cap and looked startled.