"Noa, she don't," said Giles, "for we boath do get what we can catch, and nothing more. Whoy, now, what do you think, Jeames; last Saturday, if the old 'ooman did'nt sarve me out a dish o' biled horse-beans—"
"Horse-beans?" cried James; "lack-a-daisy me, and what did you do?"
"Whoy, just what a horse would ha' done, to be sure—"
"Eat 'em?"
"Noa—I kicked, and said 'Nay,' and so the old 'ooman put herself into a woundy passion wi' I. 'Not make a dinner of horsebeans, you dainty dog,' says she; 'I wish you may never have a worse.'—'Noa, mother,' says I, 'I hope I never shall.' And she did put herself into such a tantrum, to be sure—so I bolted; whereby, d'ye see, I saved my bacon, and the old 'ooman her beans. But it won't do. Jeames, I've a notion I shall go a recruit, and them I'm thinking I shall get into a reg'lar mess, and get shut of a reg'lar row."
"Dang it, it's too bad!" said the sympathising James; "and when do thee go?"
"Next March, to be sure," replied Giles, with a spirit which was natural to him—indeed, as to any artificial spirit, it was really foreign to his lips.
"But thee are such a scare-crow, Giles," said James; "thee are thin as a weasel."
"My drumsticks," answered he, smiling, "may recommend me to the band—mayhap—for I do think they'll beat anything."
"I don't like sogering neither," said James, thoughtfully. "Suppose the French make a hole in thee with a bagnet—"