“Ye tumbled so ’mazin’ sudden, young man,” she nodded. “An’ then I never ’eerd no one talk po’try in a dik’ afore.”
“And you probably never will again, Penelope. The occasion was unique and my extempore rhymes none too bad.”
“Eh—eh, young man, did ye mak’ ’em up ... a-settin’ in t’ dik’ ... arl out o’ y’r head? Lord!”
So they reached the village at last, its deep-thatched cottages nestled beneath the sheltering down; a quiet, sleepy place where a brook gurgled pleasantly and rooks cawed lazily amid lofty, ancient trees; a place of peace, it seemed, very remote from the world.
But, as they went, rose a stir, a flutter, a growing bustle; heads peered from casements, from open doorways and dim interiors; children ceased their play to point, a woman laughed shrilly, men, home-coming from the fields, stood to stare, to laugh, to hoot and jeer; and foremost, among a group of loungers before the ancient inn, Sir John espied Mr. Sturton.
And thus amid hoots, jeers and derisive laughter came Sir John to High Dering.
CHAPTER XV
WHICH INTRODUCES A FRIEZE COAT AND ITS WEARER, ONE GEORGE POTTER
“Old gammer du ha’ found ’ersen a man at last!” cried a voice.
“Ah, the danged owd witch du ha’ ’witched hersel’ a sweet’eart fur sure!” roared another.