“Why do you think it was the Dev—, what you call the Old One?”
“Cos ’twur he,” dogmatically. “Cos Job, he run away, and nothing but the Ould Un would a’ froughtened he.”
“Job?”
“He’s my dog. I be as dry as a gicks,”—the withered stem of a plant. He took another swig at the bottle, and, much encouraged thereby, lifted up his ditty in praise of shepherding:
“The shepherd he stood on the side of the hill,
And he looked main cold and peakèd;
Says, ‘If it wurn’t for the sheep and the pore shepherd
The warld would be starved and nakèd!’”
“You seem tolerably philosophic,” said Geoffrey, “for a man with a sprained ankle; but you have not told me yet how you got lost.”
“Aw, bailee, thuck thur ’Gustus, sent me to Ilsley market wi’ dree-score yeows and lambs, zum on en wur doubles as vine as ever you seed—and I wur a coming whoam at night, doan’tee zee? I never had but one quart anyhow and mebbe a nip a’ summat else. It wur th’ Ould Un and no mistake. But then he goes off—drat th’ varmint, I’ll warm his jacket when a’ shows his face agen. I looks about for he, and misses the path, and then I wur took by the nause and drawed round and round!” (With his finger he described circles in the air to illustrate his meaning.) “Bime-by—whop! I falls into a vlint-pit. The nettles did bite my face terrable! I bided there a main bit and then crawls up to the vuzz (furze). My droat wur zo thick I couldn’t holler; and Lor! how the stars did go spinning round! I seed a fire arter a bit by them stwoanes at th’ Cave, and thenks I thuck be He this time, you—”
“So you took us for the Ould Un?”
“Wull, I axes your pardin. A’wuver I couldn’t crawl no furder, zo I lays down in the vuzz and thenks a’ Jacob and puts my head on a sarsen stwoan—”
“And slept till we found you?”