Old Mr. Dumbrell, perched in George Potter’s cart behind the likely horse, blinked at the setting sun and shook his head; quoth he:
“The longer oi live, Jarge, the more sartin-sure be oi that there be no sich thing as gratitood nowheres, no!”
“What be troublin’ of ’ee now, Gaffer?”
“Thinkin’ o’ Sir John Dering, oi be. Oh, ’e’s mebbe this an’ that an’ t’other, but oi calls ’im naun but a ongrateful young barrynet!”
“Lord, old ’un,” remonstrated Mr. Potter, “ain’t ’e given ye your cottage, rent free?”
“Wot o’ that?” snarled the Aged Soul. “Ain’t ’e got ’unnerds an’ thousands o’ cottages? Wot’s a cottage?”
“Well, but ain’t ’e likewise give ye that little medder be’ind your cottage?”
“Oi never said ’e ’adn’t, did oi?”
“Aye, but ain’t ’e give ye a cow along o’ the medder an’ a couple o’ fat ’ogs?”
“Wot of ’em?” screeched the Aged One indignantly. “Oi bean’t complainin’ o’ they, be oi? No, my trouble be ’im a-goin’ away an’ never s’ much as a word to oi ... an’ me sech a very old, aged Soul as can’t live much longer, an’ ’im a-leavin’ pore old oi wi’ never no good-bye ... an’ never sendin’ me that theer arm-cheer as ’e promised faithful!”