“And how much did ’em fetch?”
“The man ain’t brought in the account yet, Tom; but I spect we shall have un soon.”
“Why,” said Mr. Bumpkin, looking at the stackyard, “another rick be gone!”
“Yes, Tom, it be gone, and fine good hay it wur; it cut out as well as any hay I ever zeed.”
“Sure did ur!” answered Tom; “it were the six ak’r o’ clover, and were got up wirout a drop o’ rain on un; it wur prime hay, thic. Why, I wur offered six pun’ a looad for un.”
“I don’ow what ur fetched, Tom; but I be mighty troubled about this ’ere lawsuit. I wish we’d never ’a had un.”
“Doan’t say thic, Nancy; we be bound to bring un. As Laryer Prigg say, it bean’t so much t’ pig—”
“No, Tom, thee said un fust.”
“Well, s’poase I did—so ur did, and it worn’t so much t’ pig, it wur thic feller’s cheek.”
“Well, I don’t know nothing about un; I dissay you be right, because you’ve allays been right, Tom; and we’ve allays got on well togither these five and thirty year: but, some’ow, Tom—down, Tim!—down, Tim!”