"Hould yer row!"
"Help, help!"
"Shut up, yu fule!—We'm not done yet.—Thee doesn't want to pay for help, dost?"
THE CATCH OF THE SEASON
We hauled, pulled, puffed and swore again. Yard by yard the nets came up, now foul, now broken, now tangled, now wound about the headrope and almost solid with fish.
"Oh, my poor back."
"Lord, my arms!"
"Casn' thee trim a boat better'n that?"
"Where 'er down tu?"
"There's only two strakes to spare."