“Who do ee mean?” asked his crony, Farmer Hedges.
“Aw, we shall zee. I’ve got half a mind to tell un; but he won’t take no notiss of such as we.”
“Not a mossel of use,” said Hedges sententiously. “These yer quality be such a akkerd lot;” and he knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the iron-bound edge of the trestle-table. The object of this armour was to prevent the labourers sticking their billhooks into it when they called for a quart, for hedge-cutters are apt to strike their tools into the nearest piece of wood when they want their hands free. Having filled the pipe again, and finding he had no match, he stepped into the inn-kitchen to light it at the fire, and instantly noticed a large red-hot nail in a log of burning wood.
“Missis, missis!” The landlady came running. “Look ee thur—thur’s a crooked nail in thuck log. Draw un out—doan’t ee waste un. Nails be amazin’ useful thengs.”
“Zo um be,” said Farmer Ruck. “Volk used to save um. I knowed them as had a gallon measure full of hoss-stubs: thaay be the toughest iron, and makes the vinest gun-barrels.”
“Them cut nails be as rotten as matchwood,” said Bill the “wunt-catcher,” i.e. mole-catcher, throwing down his wooden traps. “Time o’ day to ee, missus;” nodding to her over the mug, and meaning good health. “The vinest gun as ever you seed wur thuck long un up to Warren. Mebbe you minds Kippur Mathew?”
“I minds un,” said Farmer Ruck.
“Thuck gun would kill your chain. Thur wur a hole in the barrel as yer med put yer vinger in. Mathew, he squints along at the geame, and I holds a dock-leaf auver this yer hole, and he lets vly, and kills half a score o’ quests,” (wood-pigeons).
(This expedient of the dock-leaf over a crack in the barrel was actually put in practice.)
“A’ wur a chap to fiddle,” said Hedges. “A’ made hisself a fiddle out o’ thuck maple as growed in Little Furlong hedge. Hulloa, Pistol-legs!”