“'Go on,” said Philip, in an impassive voice.
“Got that down, Philip? Aw, you're smart wonderful with the pen, though....
'When she's got it on her lil head you'd laugh tremenjous.
She's straight like a lil John the Baptist in the church
window'—”
Pete paused; Philip lifted his pen and waited.
“Done already? Man veen, there's no houlding you....
'Glad to hear you're so happy and comfortable with Uncle Joe
and Auntie Joney. Give the pair of them my fond love and
best respects. We're getting on beautiful, and I'm as happy
as a sandboy. Sometimes Grannie gets a bit down with
longing, and so does Nancy, but I tell them you'll be home
for their funeral sarmon, anyway, and then they're comforted
wonderful.'”
“Don't be writing his rubbage and lies, your Honour,” said Nancy.
“Chut! woman; where's the harm at all? A merry touch to keep a person's spirits up when she's away from home—eh, Philip?” and Pete appealed to him with a nudge at his writing elbow.
Philip gave no sign. With a look of stupor he was staring down at the paper as he wrote. Pete puffed and went on—
“'Cæsar's at it still, going through the Bible same as a
trawl-boat, fishing up the little texes. The Dempster's
putting a sight on us reg'lar, and you're not forgot at him
neither. 'Deed no, but thinking of you constant, and
trusting you're the better for laving home——-'