'Putt thee pot on the fire, old 'ooman, and bile thee own bakkon,' John answered her, very sharply: 'nobody no raight to meddle wi' a man's bad ooman but himzell. Wull, here was all these here men awaitin', zum wi' harses, zum wi'out; the common volk wi' long girt guns, and tha quarlity wi' girt broad-swords. Who wor there? Whay latt me zee. There wor Squire Maunder,' here John assumed his full historical key, 'him wi' the pot to his vittle-place; and Sir Richard Blewitt shaking over the zaddle, and Squaire Sandford of Lee, him wi' the long nose and one eye, and Sir Gronus Batchildor over to Ninehead Court, and ever so many more on 'em, tulling up how they was arl gooin' to be promoted, for kitching of Tom Faggus.
'“Hope to God,” says I to myzell, “poor Tom wun't coom here to-day: arl up with her, if 'a doeth: and who be there to suckzade 'un?” Mark me now, all these charps was good to shutt 'un, as her coom crass the watter; the watter be waide enow there and stony, but no deeper than my knee-place.
'“Thee cas'n goo no vurder,” Bill Blacksmith saith to me: “nawbody 'lowed to crass the vord, until such time as Faggus coom; plaise God us may mak sure of 'un.”
'“Amen, zo be it,” says I; “God knoweth I be never in any hurry, and would zooner stop nor goo on most taimes.”
'Wi' that I pulled my vittles out, and zat a horsebarck, atin' of 'em, and oncommon good they was. “Won't us have 'un this taime just,” saith Tim Potter, as keepeth the bull there; “and yet I be zorry for 'un. But a man must kape the law, her must; zo be her can only learn it. And now poor Tom will swing as high as the tops of they girt hashes there.”
'“Just thee kitch 'un virst,” says I; “maisure rope, wi' the body to maisure by.”
'“Hurrah! here be another now,” saith Bill Blacksmith, grinning; “another coom to help us. What a grave gentleman! A warship of the pace, at laste!”
'For a gentleman, on a cue-ball horse, was coming slowly down the hill on tother zide of watter, looking at us in a friendly way, and with a long papper standing forth the lining of his coat laike. Horse stapped to drink in the watter, and gentleman spak to 'un kindly, and then they coom raight on to ussen, and the gentleman's face wor so long and so grave, us veared 'a wor gooin' to prache to us.
'“Coort o' King's Bench,” saith one man; “Checker and Plays,” saith another; “Spishal Commission, I doubt,” saith Bill Blacksmith; “backed by the Mayor of Taunton.”
'“Any Justice of the King's Peace, good people, to be found near here?” said the gentleman, lifting his hat to us, and very gracious in his manner.