“What ye all a doin’ a monkeyin’ round’ these yer premerses, anyhow?” he demanded. “W’y c’udn’t ye jest wait ’ll I sent for ye ter kem yer?”
“It’s a sort of surprise party, my dear sir,” said Cattleton. “Don’t you see?”
“S’prise set o’ meddlin’ Yankees a foolin’ roun’ wher’ they air not got no business at,” responded Tolliver, “that’s w’at I calls it.”
“Where’s your pantry?” inquired Punner, “I’m as hungry as a wolf.”
“Hongry, air ye? What’d ye ’spect ter git ter eat at er still-house, anyhow? Hain’t ye got no sense er tall? Air ye er plum blasted eejit?”
Tolliver made these inquiries in a voice and manner suggestive of suppressed but utter wrath.
“Oh he’s always hungry, he would starve in a feed-store,” exclaimed Cattleton. “Don’t pay the least attention to him, Mr. Tolliver. He’s incurably hungry.”
“W’y ef the man’s really hongry——” Tolliver began to say in a sympathetic tone.
“Here,” interrupted Hubbard gruffly, “let us out of this immediately, can’t you? The ladies can’t bear this foul air much longer, it’s beastly.”
“Mebbe hit air you ’at air a running this yer chebang,” said Tolliver with a scowl. “I’ll jes’ let ye out w’en I git ready an’ not a minute sooner, nother. So ye’ve hearn my tin horn.”