“He wur a fool!” said Bumpkin, “and I told un so. So as I warned un about thic Sergeant; the artfullest man as ever lived, Nancy.”
Mrs. Bumpkin wiped her eyes. “He wur a good boy, wur Joe, goo where ur wool; but, Tom, couldn’t thee ’a’ kept thine eye on un when thee see thic Sergeant hoverin’ roun’ like a ’awk arter a sparrer?”
“I did keep eye on un, I tell ’ee; but what be the good o’ thic; as well keep thee eye on th’ sparrer when th’ hawk be at un. I tell ’ee I ’suaded un and warned un, and begged on un to look out.”
“An’ what did ur say?”
“Say, why said ur wur up to un.”
“Up to un,” repeated Mrs. Bumpkin. “Can’t think ’ow ur got ’old on un.”
“No, and thee mark I, no more can nobody else—in Lunnon thee’re ’ad afore thee knows where thee be.”
And now Mr. Bumpkin had his “little drop of warm gin and water before going to bed”: and Mrs. Bumpkin had a mug of elder wine, for the Christmas elder wine was not quite gone: and after that Mrs. Bumpkin, who as the reader knows, was the better scholar of the two, took down from a shelf on which the family documents and books were kept, a large old bible covered with green baize. Then she wiped her glasses, and after turning over the old brown leaves until she came to the place where she had read last before Tom went away, commenced
her evening task, while her husband smoked on and listened.
Was it the old tone with which she spelt her way through the sacred words? Hardly: here it could be perceived that in her secret heart there was doubt and mistrust. Do what she would her eyes frequently became so dim that it was necessary to pause and wipe her glasses; and when she had finished and closed the book, she took Tom’s hand and said: