“Maybe ye'r like the rest on us: ye can make nowt on him, back ner edge.”
“Right now, great sage; the sun doesn't shine through him.”
“He's a great lounderan fellow,” said one of the dalesmen, speaking into the pewter at his mouth. He was the blacksmith of Wythburn.
“What do you say?” asked Monsey.
“Nowt!” the man growled sulkily.
“So ye said nowt?” inquired Matthew.
“Nowt to you, or any of you.”
“Then didst a nivver hear it said, 'He that talks to himsel' clatters to a fool'?”
The company laughed.
“No,” resumed Matthew, turning to the schoolmaster, “Ralph will nivver tryste with the lass of yon hang-gallows of a tailor. The gallows rope's all but roond his neck already. It's awesome to see him in his barramouth in the fell side. He's dwinnelt away to a atomy.