“Thee beest a silly feller to leave a good ooame and nine shillin’ a week to goo a sogerin; and when thee was
out o’ work, there were allays a place for thee, Joe, at the fireside: now, warnt there, Joe?”
“Lookee ’ere, maister, I be for betterin’ myself.”
“Betterin’ thyself? who put that into thy silly pate? thic sergeant, I bleeve.”
“So ur did; not by anything ur said, but to see un wi beef steaks and ingons for supper, while I doan’t ’ave a mouthful o’ mate once a week, and work like a oarse.”
“Poor silly feller—O dear, dear! whatever wool I tell Nancy and thy poor mither. What redgimen be thee in, Joe?”
“Hooroars!”
“Hooroars! hoo-devils!” and I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin’s eyes began to glisten as he more and more realized the fact that Joe was no more to him—“thee manest the oosors, thee silly feller; a pooty oosor thee’ll make!”
“I tellee what,” said Joe, whose pride was now touched, “Maister Sergeant said I wur the finest made chap he ever see.”
“That’s ow ur gulled thee, Joe.”