"Farty-folds!" said Mrs. Iden, imitating his provincial pronunciation with extreme disgust in her tone.
"Aw, yes, too," said Iden. "Varty-volds be ould potatoes, and thur bean't none as can beat um."
The more she showed her irritation at his speech or ways, the more he accentuated both language and manner.
"Talking with your mouth full," said Mrs. Iden. It was true, Iden did talk with his mouth full, very full indeed, for he fed heartily. The remark annoyed him; he grunted and spluttered and choked a little—floury things are choky. He got it down by taking a long draught at his quart of strong ale. Splendid ale it was, too, the stuff to induce you to make faces at Goliath. He soon began to talk again.
"Th' ould shepherd fetched me these swede greens; I axed un three days ago; I know'd we was going to have this yer mutton. You got to settle these yer things aforehand."
"Axed," muttered Mrs. Iden.
"Th' pigeons have been at um, they be 'mazing fond of um, so be the larks. These be the best as thur was. They be the best things in the world for the blood. Swede greens be the top of all physic. If you can get fresh swede tops you don't want a doctor within twenty miles. Their's nothing in all the chemists' shops in England equal to swede greens"—helping himself to a large quantity of salt.
"What a lot of salt you do eat!" muttered Mrs. Iden.
"Onely you must have the real swedes—not thuck stuff they sells in towns; greens they was once p'rhaps, but they be tough as leather, and haven't got a drop of sap in um. Swedes is onely to be got about March."
"Pooh! you can get them at Christmas in London," said Mrs. Iden.