“So might thic bull,” said Joe; “but I’d like to zee what ’ud become o’ the chap as led un.”
“Chap as led un!” said Mrs. Bumpkin, laughing.
“I’d gie un a crack o’ the canister,” said Joe.
“Don’t thee git knockin’ down, Joe, unless thee be ’bliged,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “keep out o’ bad company, and don’t stay out o’ nights.”
“And lookee ’ere, Joe,” said Bumpkin, “when thee comes afore th’ Counsellor wi’ wig on, hold up thee head; look un straight in t’ face and spak oop. Thee needn’t be afeared t’ spak t’ truth.”
“I bean’t afeard,” said Joe; “I mind me when old Morris wur at plough, and I was leadin’ th’ ’orses, Morris says, says he, ‘Now then, cock, let’s see if we can’t git a eend this time;’ so on we goes, and jist afore I gits the ’orses to eend o’ t’ field, Dobbin turns, and then, dash my bootons, the tother turns after un, and me tryin’ to keep em oop, Dobbin gits his legs over the trace. Well, Morris wur that wild, he says, says he, ‘Damme, if yer doan’t look sharp, I’ll gie thee a crack o’ t’ canister wi’ this ’ere whippense presny’” (presently).
“Crack o’ the canister!” laughed Mrs. Bumpkin, “and that’s what Morris called thy head, eh?”
This was a capital hit on Joe’s part, for it set them
thinking of the events of old times, and Joe, seeing the effect of it, ventured upon another anecdote relating to the old carter.
“Thee recollect, master, when that there Mr. Gearns come down to shoot; lor, lor, what a queer un he wur, surely!”