“Well, but the income tax won’t bring your money up to anything like the right amount,” observed Mr. Teaser to Henerey, anxious to get rid of the lime question.
“W-h-o-y n-o-a,” replied Henerey, again scratching his pate, “but it’s as much as I can bring ye to-day.”
“To-day, man!” retorted Sir Moses, “Why, don’t you know that this is the rent-day! the day on which the entire monetary transactions on the whole estate are expected to be settled.”
Henerey—“O, w-h-o-y it ‘ill make ne odds to ye, Sir Moses.”
Sir Moses—“Ne odds to me! How do you know that?”
Henerey—(apologetically) “Oh, Sir Moses, you have plenty, Sir Moses.”
Sir Moses—“Me plenty! me plenty! I’m the poorest crittur alive!” which was true enough, only not in the sense Sir Moses intended it.
Henerey—“Why, why, Sir Moses, ar’ll bring ye some more after a bit; but ar tell ye,” appealing to Teaser, “Ye mun ‘loo for the lime.”
“The lime be hanged,” exclaimed Sir Moses. “Dy’e sp’ose I’m such a fool as to let you the land, and farm ye the land, and pay income tax on rent that I never receive? That won’t do—dom’d if it will.”
Henerey—(boiling up) “Well, but Sir Moses, wor farm’s far o’er dear.”