"So 's t' stapil yonder, but t' stapil looks nigh as good as ever."
"Iron generally wears better than flesh and blood," said I; "it's only natural."
"Ay, but 'e can't last forever," said the Ancient, frowning, and shaking his head at the rusty staple. "I've watched un, month in an' month out, all these years, an' seen un growin' rustier an' rustier. I'll last 'ee out yet,' I've said to un—'e knows it—'e 've heerd me many an' many a time. 'I'll last 'ee out yet!' I've said, an' so I will, to—'e can't last forever an' I be a vig'rus man—a mortal vig'rus man—bean't I?"
"Wonderfully!" said I.
"An' so strong as a bull?"
"To be sure."
"An' t' stapil can't last much longer—eh, maister?—so old an' rusty as 'e be?"
"One would hardly think so."
"Not so long as a tur'ble vig'rus man, like I be?" he inquired, with a certain wistful appeal in his eyes.
"No," I answered impulsively.