“Eh, I’ll fill it,” responded Luke; “’tisn’t so very mich trouble. I’d ha’ filled yon for yo’ too if I’d ha’ knowed what yo’ was arter.”
“Nay, I’d as soon do for mysel’, thank yo’,” retorted Jinny. “I never was one as fancied bein’ behowden to folks. Theer, ’tis striking one,” as the cuckoo-clock on the chimney-piece gave out a quavering note, “yo’d best be steppin’.”
Luke rose, pocketed his pipe, and followed John, who had already folded up his newspaper and left his place in the porch. They walked away together in silence until they were out of earshot, and then Luke, with a slow grin and a backward jerk of his head towards the cottage, remarked:—
“Th’ owd lass seems awful religious.”
“She’s thot,” agreed John, “but she’s one o’ the better mak’ for all that. She dunnot preach nowt as she dunnot put i’ practice, mon.”
“Well, I dunnot howd wi’ bein’ put upon as how ’tis,” retorted Luke defiantly. “I’m one as dunnot like to sup coffee when I’ve a mind to sup beer, an’ to be set down to say grace, same as if I was a babby.”
“We’re all babbies here,” said John, with a grin. “I could laugh by times of a Sunday morn, when we all sets out for church same as the infants in the school.”
“Church!” exclaimed Luke, his voice becoming almost falsetto in its indignation. “Tell yo’ what—she’ll find she’s got hold o’ the wrong mak’ o’ chap for they games. ’Twas a rule as I made long ago.”
John laughed to himself in a way which increased the new porter’s ire.
“What do yo’ mean by that?” he enquired sharply; “theer’s nought to laugh at as I can see.”