"Awm sooary tha'rt soa bad," aw shaated.
"Tha doesn't know what aw suffer, lad. Has ta owt to sup?"
"Eeah, aw've a drop'at Mally wod mak mi bring; see what it's like."
"That stirs it," he sed, when he'd had a gooid swig, "what does ta call it?"
"Nay, aw dooant know for aw've nivver tasted it. Happen it's gin?"
"Is it?" an' he held th' bottle to luk at it. "Maybe it is," he sed, an' he tuk another swig to find aght. "Nay it's nooan gin aw think, aw fancy it's whisky."
"Varry likely it is whisky," aw sed, "it doesn't luk unlike."
"Aw dooant pretend to say'at it is, for awm noa judge, but it happen is gin," an' he supt agean to mak reight sewer, an' then he handed me th' bottle an' sed, "tha can call it what tha likes but aw call it whisky—taste for thisen."
He did reight to say "taste," for he hadn't left enough in for a sup, but aw didn't care for that for it seemed to liven him up a bit, an' bi th' time we stopt at Peterborough he jumpt aght to stretch his legs a bit an' try what sooart o' ale they kept at th' station, an' he lukt leetsomer nor awd seen him for a twelvemonth, an' when he coom back he'd a cigar in his maath an' another for me. "What mak o' ale do they keep?" aw ax'd.
"Muck! Aw wodn't sell sich stuff, an' th' glasses are nobbut like thimmels an' they dooan't aboon hauf fill'em. It's a scandlous shame ha they impooas o' fowk, if awd to do sich things aw couldn't sleep for thinkin' on it," an as if to prove'at he nivver did owt o'th' sooart he lained back his heead an' in a varry little time wor snoorin' away like a bacon makker.