I've washed and washed: it's all one gob of gore.
He don't look dead to you? What? Nor to you?
Not kill, the clip I give him, couldn't do.'
'God send; he looks damn bad,' the blacksmith said.
'Py Cot,' his mate said, 'she wass altogether;
She hass an illness look of peing ted.'
'Here. Get a glass,' the smith said, 'and a feather.'
'Wass you at fightings or at playings whether?'
'Here, get a glass and feather. Quick's the word.'
The glass was clear. The feather never stirred.