“Why, Joe, Joe,” said his old master. “Thee’s never gone an’ listed, has thee, Joe?”
“Lookee ’ere, maister,” said the recruit, taking off his hat and spreading out the colours—“Thee sees these here, maister?”
“Thee beant such a fool, Joe, I knows thee beant—thee’s been well brought oop—and I knows thee beant gwine to leave I and goo for a soger!”
“I be listed, maister.”
“Never!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin. “I wunt b’lieve it, Joe.”
“Then thee must do tother thing, maister. I tellee I be listed; now, what’s thee think o’ that?”
“That thee be a fool,” said Mr. Bumpkin, angrily; “thee be a silly-brained—.”
“Stop a bit, maister, no moore o’ that. I beant thy
sarvant now. I be a Queen’s man—I be in the Queen’s sarvice.”
“A pooty Queen’s man thee be, surely. Why look at thic hair all down over thy face, and thee be as red as a poppy.”