“Shudge,” he said, “I don’t make noddings of what these fellers say.”
It was the judge’s chance to get even for many annoyances.
“Neither can any one else,” he said. “Sit down.”
A parson, diminutive in size and his head covered with hair of the most fiery hue, officiated one Sunday for a friend in a colliery village near Nottingham. The old-fashioned pulpit had a high desk over which the parson’s red head was hardly visible. This was too much for a burly collier seated immediately under the pulpit, who when he heard the text, “I am the Light of the World,” exclaimed to the clerk, “Push him up a bit higher, mate; don’t let him burn in the socket.”
“Biddy,” said Pat timidly, “did ye iver think o’ marryin’?”’
“Shure, now,” said Biddy, looking demurely at her shoe—“shure, now, the subject has niver entered me mind at all, at all.”
“It’s sorry Oi am,” said Pat, and he turned away.