Handy, jun. I say, Farmer, you are a set of jolly fellows here, an't you?
Ash. Ees, zur, deadly jolly—excepting when we be otherwise, and then we bean't.
Handy, jun. Play at cricket, don't you?
Ash. Ees, zur; we Hampshire lads conceat we can bowl a bit or thereabouts.
Handy, jun. And cudgel too, I suppose?
Sir Abel. At him, Bob.
Ash. Ees, zur, we sometimes break oon another's heads, by way of being agreeable, and the like o'that.
Handy, jun. Understand all the guards? [Putting himself in an attitude of cudgelling.]
Ash. Can't zay I do, zur.
Handy, jun. What! hit in this way, eh? [Makes a hit at Ashfield, which he parries, and hits young Handy violently.]