"Mr. Hedges, the Liberal agent, promised that if I'd write fur him, he'd git me work on a London paper, and I could mäake my fortune and be free of all this."
"All wot?"
"Odiam!" shrieked Albert.
Reuben faced him with straight lips and dilated nostrils; the boy was now quivering with passion, hatred seemed to have purged him of terror.
"Yes—Odiam!" he continued, clenching his fists—"that blasted farm of yourn wot's the curse of us all. Here we're made to work, and never given a penny fur our labour—we're treated worse than the lowest farm-hands, like dogs, we are. Robert stole money to git away, and can you wonder that when I see my chance I should täake it. I'm no Radical—I döan't care one way or t'other—but when the Radicals offered me money to write verses fur 'em, I wurn't going to say 'no.' They promised to mäake my fortun, and save me from you and your old farm, which I wish was in hell."
"Stop your ranting and tell me how the hogs got you."
"I met Mr. Hedges at the pub——"
"Wur it you or him wot thought of the Scott's Float Gëate?"
"I heard of it from old Pitcher down at Loose, and I töald Hedges. I justabout——"
A terrific blow from Reuben cut him short.