“That same. And my name is Derwent.”
“Why, Mr. Derwent, sir, that du alter the case, I rackon. So theer be Potter’s ’and, sir, and heartily! Ah, an’ yonder be old Penelope a-beckonin’ ... her will curse we shameful if us du keep her waitin’ ... so come ’long, sir.”
“Aye, come y’r ways, du—both on ye!” cried the old creature imperiously. “’Tidn’t often I ’as comp’ny, so I’ll brew ye a dish o’ tay——”
“Tea?” exclaimed Sir John.
“Aye, all the way from Chaney, young man! Tay as costes forty shillin’ a pound an’ more up to Lunnon—tak’ care o’ my old trug! This way—down twitten!”
She led them down a narrow way between the walls of cottages and gardens, and at last to a very small cottage indeed, a forlorn little structure, its garden trampled, its broken window-panes stuffed with old rags to exclude the elements, itself all dilapidation from rotting thatch to crumbling doorstep.
“And is this your home?” cried Sir John, very much aghast.
“It be, young man. They bruk’ all my lattices months agone, an’ Mr. Sturton won’t put in no more. The chimbley smokes an’ the thatch leaks an’ I gets the ager bad, but it be my home an’ I love every brick. For ’twas here I were born, here I loved and lost, here I hoped to die, but Maaster Sturton be fur turning o’ me out next month ... bean’t ’e, Jarge?”
“’E be,” answered Mr. Potter softly, “dang ’im!”