“There!” she said. “I made ye that for a bit of a change. The fire was burnin’ up so clear an’ nice, I jest thought I’d do it. ’Twill be a nice change for ’ee, Joseph—’twill sure.”
She spoke in a high quavering voice, peering anxiously the while at her spouse.
He took a piece of toast and turned it over; then broke off a bit and flung it on the table.
“’Tis as hard as flint, woman,” he said indignantly. “Where d’ye think I can find teeth to bite en?”
“Nay now, ’tis not so ’ard as that comes to,” urged she. “I can bite en, an’ I han’t got a single tooth left. Sop it in yer tea, do ’ee now, an’ it’ll slip down nice.”
“Slip down, indeed! It ’ud want a bit o’ butter, or a bit o’ graise for that. But here us be—two old ancient folks as has lived in this parish man an’ wife for fifty-two year, an’ they’ll not so much as gi’e us a tater.”
“They’ll not so much as gi’e us a tater”
“Yes a tater ’ud be nice, sure,” quavered the old woman. “It ’ud be very nice.”
“Or a bit o’ green stuff ’ud be nice,” went on Frisby emphatically. “I could eat this bread if they’d gi’e I a bit o’ green to put to’t. But no, ’tis ‘Go away, I’ve nothin’ for ’ee’ all round. There’s every man an’ bwoy in the place workin’ up at the ’lotments, gettin’ the taters into the ground as fast as ever they can stick ’em. If they was to gi’e us half a dozen each they’d never miss it, an’ I could get my bit ’o ground planted up. But no, they be all took up wi’ theirselves—never a thought for we.”