“Never fear,” exclaimed a third, “Maggot’s far too ’cute a cunger to be caught twice.”
“I say, my dear man,” asked another, “have ’ee bin takin’ a waalk ’pon the clifts lately?”
“Iss, aw iss,” replied the smith with much gravity.
“Did ’ee find any more daws ’pon clift?” asked the other, with a leer.
There was a general laugh at this, but Maggot replied with good-humour,—“No, Billy, no—took ’em all away last time. But I’m towld there’s some more eggs in the nest, so thee’ll have a chance some day, booy.”
“I hope the daws ain’t the worse of their ducking?” asked Billy, with an expression of anxious interest.
“Aw, my dear,” said Maggot, looking very sad, and shaking his head slowly, “didn’t ’ee hear the noos?”
“No, not I.”
“They did catch the noo complaint the doctor do spaik of—bronkeetis I think it is—and although I did tie ’em up wi’ flannel round their necks, an’ water-gruel, besides ’ot bottles to their feet, they’re all gone dead. I mean to have ’em buried on Monday. Will ’ee come to the berryin, Billy?”
“P’raps I will,” replied Billy, “but see that the gravedigger do berry ’em deep, else he’ll catch a blowin’ up like the gravedigger did in Cambourne last week.”