“Where be thic bull o’ mine?” said Tom. “He wur the finest bull in all thic county, woren’t he, Nancy?”
“Ay,” answered Mrs. Bumpkin, “and ur follered I about, Tom, jist like a Christian.”
“So ur did, Nancy. Dost thee mind, when ur got through thic gap into Squire Stucky’s meadow, ’mong the cows?”
“Ay, Tom; and thee went and whistled un; but ur wouldn’t come for thy whistlin; and Joe, poor Joe! went and got a great stick.”
“There I mind un,” said Bumpkin; “what coomed of un, Master Prigg?”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Prigg; “quite so; let me see.” And again the gold pencil-case was pressed against his respectable forehead in placid cogitation. “Yes, that bull argued the appeal.”
“Hem!” said Mr. Bumpkin; “argied appeal, did ur? Well, I tell ee what, Master Prigg, if that air bull ’ad knowed what I knows now, he’d a gi’en them jusseses a bit o’ his mind, and thee too.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Prigg; “you entirely mis-apprehend—”
“Well, lookee ’ere,” said Tom, “it beant no use to mince matters wi’ ee. What I wants to know is as this; I winned my case—”
“Quite so,” said Prigg.