Now I perceived that although neither master nor man was in such a state as could be described as “intoxicated,” yet both were in that semi-beatific condition which may be called sentimental.
“Lookee ’ere, maister,” continued Joe.
“And lookee here,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “didn’t I come out to thee two or three times, and call thee out and tell ’ee to tak’ heed to thic soger feller, for he wur up to no good? Did I Joe, or did I not?”
“Thee did, maister.”
“Well, an’ now look where thee be; he’ve regler took thee in, thee silly fool.”
“No, he beant; for he wouldn’t ’ave I at fust, and told I to goo and ax my mither. No ses I, I’ll goo to the divil afore I be gwine to ax mither. I beant a child, I ses.”
“But thee’s fond o’ thy poor old mither, Joe; I knows thee be, and sends her a shillin’ a week out o’ thy wages; don’t thee, Joe?”
This was an awkward thrust, and pricked the lad in his most sensitive part. His under-lip drooped, his mouth twitched, and his eyes glistened. He was silent.
“Where’ll thy poor old mither get a shilling a week from noo, Joe? That’s what I wants to know.”
Joe drew his sleeve over his face, but bore up bravely withal. He wasn’t going to cry, not he.