"Well, Jim, tha fair caps me! Aw wonder tha hasn't made a fortun befoor nah! But aw dooant think aw want ony pills, tho' aw'm badly enough."
"Why, what does ta ail? Has ta getten th' backwark, or th' heeadwark, or does ta feel wamly sometimes an' cannot ait?"
"Nawther, John; it's summat else nor that."
"Why, is it summat 'at tha has o' thi mind!"
"Noa, it isn't mi mind, it's mi understandin' 'at's 'sufferin'. Th' fact is, Jim, aw'm troubled wi' a bunion."
"Let's luk at it," says Jim, "ther's nowt easier to cure nor a bunion."
John took off his shoe an' stockin', an' when Jim saw it he sed, "Oh, aw see what it wants; it wants bringin' to a heead."
"Well, aw think bi th' rate it's growin', it'll be a heead afoor long, for it's as big as mi neive already."
"Nah, aw'll tell thee what tha mun do. Tak five or six o' thease pills ivery neet till tha feels a bit ov a difference, an' when tha gooas to bed tha mun put thi fooit into a pooltice, an' tha'll find it'll get better as it mends."
"Well, aw think ther's some sense i' what tha says, soa aw think aw'll try some; ha does ta sell 'em?"