“Here! wait! whoa!” cried Sol, distractedly. “Let me out!”
“Nay, now,” returned grammer, clutching him by the arm, “bide a bit, bide a bit. Don’t be in sich a hurry. P’raps there’s a little mistake.”
“There’s a mistake, an’ not such a very little one,” replied Sol, indignantly.
“You was a-lookin’ for another tranter, I reckon,” resumed grammer, archly. “Maybe you was a-lookin’ for Tranter Sally.”
“Maybe I was,” admitted Sol, relaxing.
“She’s my granddarter,” remarked the old lady.
“Oh!” said Sol, stiffening again. “She needn’t ha’ served me sich a trick then,” he added somewhat inconsequently. “She needn’t ha’ made a fool o’ me! Any man mid be made a fool on that way.”
“True,” agreed Mrs Roberts soothingly, “you was made a fool on, jist about!”
“I d’ ’low I’ll get out now,” announced Sol for the second time, with sulky dignity.
“No, no, bide a bit. ’Tis lwonely here, an’ ye know ye did promise to take care of I—he, he, he!”