"Like some bloomin' gal."
"Didn't 'e say nothin' more?"
"'You dunno what it's like,' 'e says, 'to be back in this old place—to smell the good old Sussex clay, to watch the plovers flyin', to pick these flowers. You dunno what it's like, Cherriman,' 'e says, 'seein' you ain't come back to it from 'ell. Rabbits be safe 'nough from me now,' 'e says, an' drops his daffs all unknowin' like an' goes off at a mooney stride. An' 'e finest shot in th' county, some do say—an' I believes 'em!"
"Teh, Luther—stop yer jaw! There be young Squire a-comin'. An' bless me if 'e ain't ..."
"Here, you two old rascals, I've been looking for you—for you, anyhow, Cherriman. Here's a rabbit apiece for your suppers—shot 'em myself."
"Thank ye kindly, Sir. But I thought as you'd give up shootin'?"
"I thought so too, Cherriman—till I saw your face in the field yesterday. And then I said to myself, I must regain Cherriman's respect if it means the hardest bit of shooting I've ever done here or in Flanders."
"That's right, Sir! Don't do to let glory o' England die. Thank ye kindly for rabbits, Sir—us'll enjoy 'em proper."
"Hope you'll break your last tooth on them, Cherriman—that's what I hope."
"Glory o' England's more to me, Sir, 'n an 'ole set o' teeth at my time o' life."