"Hy'se 'a been so long, old Davy, afore 'a come to see poor Bardie?"
"Because, my pretty dear, I have been forced to work, all day long almost."
"Hasn't 'a had no time to pay?"
"No, my dear, not a moment to play. Work, work, work! Money, money, money! Till old Davy is quite worn out."
I may have put horns to the truth in this. But at any rate not very long ones. And the child began to ponder it.
"I tell 'a, old Davy, 'hot to do. Susan say to me one day, kite yell, I amember, ickle Bardie made of money! Does 'a sink so?"
"I think you are made of gold, you beauty; and of diamonds, and the Revelations."
"Aye yell! Then I tell 'a hot to do. Take poor Bardie to markiss, old Davy; and 'e get a great big money for her."
She must have seen some famous market; for acting everything as she did (by means of working face, arms, and legs), she put herself up like a fowl in a basket, and spread herself, making the most of her breast, and limping her neck as the dead chickens do. Before I could begin to laugh, Moxy was upon us.