“The man! The devil’s in thic man, who be he? Where do ur come from? I’ll bring an action agin him as sure’s he’s alive or shoot un dead wi my gun;” here Mr. Bumpkin, in a great rage, got up and went to the beam which ran across the kitchen ceiling, and formed what is called the roof-tree of the house, by the side of which the gun was suspended by two loops.
“No, no, Tom, don’t—don’t—we have never wronged any one yet, and don’t—don’t now.”
“But I wool,” said Bumpkin; “what! be I to be stripped naaked and not fight for th’ cloathes—who be thic feller as took the bull?”
Mrs. Bumpkin was holding her apron to her eyes, and for a long while could say nothing.
“Who be he, Nancy?”
“I don’t know, Tom—but he held a paper in his hand writ all over as close as the stubble-rows in the field, and he said thee had signed un.”
“Lord! lord!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, and then sat down on the settle and looked at the fire as though it threw a light over his past actions. He couldn’t speak for a long time, not till Mrs. Bumpkin went up to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said:
“Tom! Tom! thee ha winned the case.”
“Aye, aye,” said Bumpkin, starting up as from a reverie. “I ha winned, Nancy. I ha beat thic there Snooks; ur wont snigger now when ur gooes by—lor, lor,—our counsellor put it into un straight, Nancy.”
“Did ur, Tom?—well, I be proud.”