“Come in, young man, an’ you tu, Jarge—come in; it du be better-lookin’ inside than out.” And indeed, once the door was shut—a particularly stout and ponderous door, Sir John noticed—the small, heavily beamed chamber was cosy and homelike, very orderly and clean, from the polished copper kettle on the hob to the china ornaments upon the mantel.
And now Mr. Potter reached a hand within the mysteries of the frieze coat and drew thence a couple of plump rabbits.
“Found ’em s’marnin’, Pen,” he nodded. “An’ here,” he continued, groping deeper within vast pocket, “’ere be a—no, that be wire ... ’ere—no, that be ’baccy for ’Osea ... ah, ’ere be a lump o’ pork t’ go wi’ ’em, Pen.”
“Thank’ee kindly, Jarge! An’ would ’ee moind a-skinnin’ of ’em whiles I tidies myself up a bit?”
“Heartily, Pen.”
“An’ you, young man, poke up the fire an’ put on the kittle t’ bile ... there be a pump in the yard.”
Having performed these duties, Sir John, seating himself on a bucket beside the pump, watched Mr. Potter deftly operate upon the rabbits, and there ensued the following conversation:
Mr. Potter: Stayin’ ’ereabouts, sir?
Sir John: At the ‘Dering Arms.’
Mr. Potter: Stayin’ long, sir?