“No, Tom, sure enough; but we bean’t ’bliged to heed un.”
“No, nor wun’t. And now here come Tim.”
To see Tim run and bound and leap and put his paws round Mr. Bumpkin’s neck and lick him, was a sight which must have made up for a great deal of the unkindness which he had experienced of late. Nor could any dog say more plainly than Tim did, how he had had a row with that ill-natured cur of Snooks’, called Towser, and how he had driven him off the farm and forbade him ever setting foot on it again. Tim told all about the snarling of Towser, and said he would not have minded his taking Snooks’ part in the action, if he had confined himself to that; but when he went on and barked at Mr. Bumpkin’s sheep and pigs, against whom he ought to have shown no ill-feeling, it was more than Tim could stand; so he flew at him and thoroughly well punished him for his malignant disposition.
But in the midst of all this welcoming, there was an unpleasant experience, and that was, that all the pigs were gone but two. The rare old Chichester sow was no more.
“There be only two affidavys left, Nancy!”
“No, Tom—only two; the man fetched two yesterday.”
“I hope they sold well. Have he sent any money yet?”
“Not a farthing,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “nor yet for the sheep. He have had six sheep.”
“Zo I zee; and where be th’ heifers? we had six.”
“They be all sold, Tom.”