“Hannah,” said he again, “I—” He stared so wildly and made such a horrible grimace that Hannah bounced from her chair. “Hannah, I say,” repeated he; but here again his courage failed him.
“What say, Josh?”
“I—I—it’s a grand time for turnips,” said Josh, “Ugh! ugh! ugh!”
“Poh!” returned Hannah, “let alone of my apron-string, you Josh.”
Josh sat in silence and despair for some time longer, growing more and more nervous every moment. Presently the stick of wood burst out squeaking again in the most doleful style imaginable: Quiddledy, quiddledy quee-ee-ee-iddledy, que, que quiddledy quiddledy que que que-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee. Josh could not bear it any longer, for he verily believed his skull-bone was splitting.
“I swaggers!” he exclaimed, “this is too bad!”
“What’s the matter, Josh?” asked Hannah, in considerable alarm.
“Suthin’ ails me,” said Josh.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Hannah; “shan’t I get you a mug of cider?”
“Do,” replied Josh, “for I don’t feel as I used to did.”