"Whatever be you doing?" she asked.
Uncle grinned.
"I be working off some ale, Jane. So thin stuff it be that I wants to get rid of it quick."
"I thought you was gone mad."
"Ah-h-h! Others may think that afore we be much older."
To her further amazement, Uncle remained at home that evening instead of going to the Sir John Barleycorn. She wondered if he were sickening for an illness. Possibly, the Parson's sermon on lean souls had affected him. Presently Uncle's earnest words lent colour to this possibility. He observed didactically:
"Hate be bad for the body. Parson got that notion from me. A man as hates his feller-men, and lies awake nights plottin' and plannin' evil, bain't never a fighter."
"How about they Proosians?"
Uncle riposted gaily:
"I hain't one to misparage the enemy, but from what I hears, and you knows I hears more than most, they Proosians fights wi' wallopin' big guns, not wi' fisteses."