"Well, but, Joe, the sun's so hot, and it shines so on your bald head, it makes one wink to look at it. You'll have a coup de soleil, Joe."
"A what, sir?"
"No matter; it's very hot working; and if you'll step in doors, I'll give you—"
"Thank ye, your honour, a drop of beer will be very acceptable."
Joe's countenance brightened amazingly.
"Joe, I'll give you—my old wig!"
The countenance of Joseph fell, his grey eye had glistened as a blest vision of double X flitted athwart his fancy; its glance faded again into the old, filmy, gooseberry-coloured hue, as he growled in a minor key, "A wig, sir!"
"Yes, Joe, a wig! The man who does not study the comfort of his dependents is an unfeeling scoundrel. You shall have my old, worn-out wig."
"I hope, sir, you'll give me a drop o' beer to drink your honour's health in,—it is very hot, and—"
"Come in, Joe, and Mrs. Witherspoon shall give it you."