"Dandering and wandering about at all hours of the day and night," continued the blacksmith.
"It's all die-spensy," repeated the peddler.
"And as widderful and wizzent as a polecat nailed up on a barn door," said Tom o' Dint, lifting his grating knife from the grindstone and speaking with a voice as hoarse.
"Eh, and as weak as watter with it," added the blacksmith.
"His as was as strong as rum punch," rejoined the fiddler.
"It's die-spensy, John—nowt else," said Gubblum.
The miller broke in testily.
"What's die-spensy?"
"What ails Paul Ritson?" answered Gubblum.
"Shaf on your balderdash," said Dick of the Syke; "die-spensying and die-spensying. You've no' but your die-spensy for everything. Tommy's rusty throat, and John's big toe, and lang Geordie's broken nose, as Giles Raisley gave him a' Saturday neet at the Pack Horse—it's all die-spensy."