"It bees just what the parson wer a sayin' a fortnight Sunday, wars an' rumours o' wars, an' bloody moons, an' disasters an' catapults, in the last days, 'e says—they be hall signs o' the times, Mrs. Chundle."
Mrs. Chundle sipped her tea, and looked round her immaculate kitchen. Then she lowered her voice,
"I'm 'opin', Mrs. Berrill, I'm 'opin' hearnest as 'ow when Mister Thomas goes back, the master will come to 'imself, like the prodigale."
Mrs. Berrill looked doubtful.
"When once the worm hentereth Eden, Mrs. Chundle," she began, enigmatically—and they both shook their heads.
"The worm bein' Mister Thomas," remarked Mrs. Chundle. "An' 'im that vilent an' himpetuous I never does know what 'e's agoin' hafter next."
"You should be firm, Mrs. Chundle."
"Which I ham, Mrs. Berrill, by nature hand intention, an' if I 'ad me own way I'd spank 'im 'earty twice a week, Mrs. Berrill, Wednesdays an' Saturdays."
"Why Wednesdays an' Saturdays, Mrs. Chundle?"
"Wednesdays ter teach 'im the hemptiness o' riches, Mrs. Berrill, which 'e gets 'is pocket-money on Wednesdays—an' Saturdays to give 'im a chastened spirit fer the Sabbath—an' ter keep 'im from a sittin' sleepy in church, Mrs. Berrill."