THE WAGGONER. (Growling) Well, you get out o' that, and sharp about it.
BELLEW. (Yawning) Not on your life! No sir,—'not for Cadwallader and all his goats!'
THE WAGGONER. You jest get down out o' my hay,—now come!
BELLEW. (Sleepily) Enough, good fellow,—go to!—thy voice offends mine ear!
THE WAGGONER. (Threateningly) Ear be blowed! If ye don't get down out o' my hay,—I'll come an' throw ye out.
BELLEW. (Drowsily) 'Twould be an act of wanton aggression that likes me not.
THE WAGGONER. (Dubiously) Where be ye goin'?
BELLEW. Wherever you like to take me; Thy way shall be my way, and—er—thy people—(Yawn) So drive on, my rustic Jehu, and Heaven's blessings prosper thee!
Saying which, Bellew closed his eyes again, sighed plaintively, and once more composed himself to slumber.
But to drive on, the Waggoner, very evidently, had no mind; instead, flinging the reins upon the backs of his horses, he climbed down from his seat, and spitting on his hands, clenched them into fists and shook them up at the yawning Bellew, one after the other.