“Gosh!” he laughed, “some folks are lucky. They pile up riches both i’ this wulld an’ t’ wulld te come. Hooivver, we won’t argy. Hev ye heerd t’ news fra’ te t’ ‘Black Lion’?”
“Aboot poor George Pickerin’? Noa. I’ve bin ower thrang i’ t’ cow-byre.”
“He’s married, an’ med his will. Betsy is Mrs. Pickerin’ noo. But she’ll be a widdy afore t’ mornin’.”
“Is he as bad as all that?”
“Sinkin’ fast, they tell me. He kep’ up, like the game ’un he allus was, until Mr. Croft left him alone wi’ his wife. Then he fell away te nowt. He’s ravin’, I hear.”
“Croft! I thowt Stockwell looked efther his affairs.”
“Right enough! But Stockwell’s ya (one) trustee, Mr. Herbert’s t’ other. So Croft had te act.”
“Well, I’m rale sorry for t’ poor chap. He’s coom tiv a bad end.”
“Ye’ll be t’ foreman o’ t’ jury, most like?”