"Yes Adam, it is I."
"Ah! an' how might you be feelin' now—arter your exercise wi' the pitch-fork, sir?"
"Very fit, I thank you, Adam. Sit down, and smoke, and let us converse together."
"Why thankee sir," answered Adam, producing the small, black clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket, and accepting Bellew's proffered pouch. "I've been up to the 'ouse a visitin' Prudence, the cook,—an' a rare cook she be, too, Mr. Beloo sir!"
"And a rare buxom girl into the bargain, Adam!"
"Oh, ah!—she's well enough, sir; I won't go for to deny as she's a fine, up-standing, well-shaped, tall, an' proper figure of a woman as ever was, sir,—though the Kentish lasses be a tidy lot, Mr. Beloo sir. But, Lord! when you come to think of her gift for Yorkshire Puddin', likewise jam-rollers, and seed-cake,—(which, though mentioned last, ain't by no manner o' means least),—when you come to think of her brew o' ale, an' cider, an' ginger wine,—why then—I'm took, sir, I'm took altogether, an' the 'Old Adam' inside o' me works hisself into such a state that if another chap—'specially that there Job Jagway gets lookin' her way too often, why it's got to get took out o' him, or took out o' me in good 'ard knocks, Mr. Belloo, sir."
"And when are you going to get married, Adam?"
"Well sir, we was thinkin' that if Miss Anthea has a good season, this year, we'd get it over an' done wi' some time in October, sir,—but it's all accordin'."
"According to what?"
"To the 'ops, sir,—the H-O-P-S—'ops, sir. They're comin' on fine,—ah! scrumptuous they be! If they don't take the blight, sir, they'll be the finest 'ops this side o' Maidstone. But then, if they do take the blight,—why then my 'opes is blighted likewise sir,—B-L-I-T-E-D, —blighted, Mr. Belloo sir!" which said, Adam laughed once, nodded his head several times, and relapsed into puffing silence.