“Ah!” said Bumpkin, “I can teach ee summat, can’t I, though thee comes from town, and I be only a country clown farmer?”
“I should just like to come down a month on trial, that’s all, when I have my holiday,” said the youth; “I think it would do me good: ‘mither woiy,’” he said, mimicking his instructor.
“Thee shall come if thee likes,” replied the good-natured
Bumpkin; “Nancy’ll be proud to see thee—thee’s got ‘mither woiy’ to rights.”
“What a very nice public-house!” exclaimed Horatio, as they approached a village green where an old Inn that had flourished in the coaching days still stood, the decaying monument of a past age, and an almost forgotten style of locomotion.
“Be a good house. I often pulls up there on way from market.”
“Did you ever try rum and milk for your cough?” inquired the pale youth.
“Never had no cough,” said Bumpkin.
“What a good thing! But it’s capital, they say, in case you should have one; they say there’s nothing beats rum and milk.”
“Hem!” muttered Bumpkin, giving his horse a tremendous jerk with the reins. “I spoase thee’d like a glass, Mr. Jigger.”