"'There's little wit within his powe
That lights a candle at the lowe.'"
Just then a tumult arose in the vicinity of the bar. The two cronies were at open war.
"Deuce take it! I had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, and where are they now?"
"'Od dang thee! what should I know about your brass? You're kicking up a stour to waken a corp!"
"I had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, I tell thee!"
"What's that to me, thou poor shaffles? You're as drunk as muck. Do you think I've taken your brass? You've got a wrong pig by the lug if you reckon to come ower me!"
"They were in my reet-hand breek pocket, I'll swear on it!"
"What a fratchin'—try your left-hand breek pocket."
The russet-faced plowman thrust his hand where directed and instantly a comical smile of mingled joy and shame overspread his countenance. There was a gurgling laugh, through which the voice of the peddler could be heard saying:
"We'll mak' thee king ower the cockers, my canny lad."