“None of your sneering, Saul; I am compos and capable,” said Abel.
“You bean't, Yeabel! upon my life, you bean't!” replied Saul; “you shouldn't do so—no, truly. Why, now, suppose I were to 'scape.”
“Escape!” exclaimed Abel, cocking his hat; “elude my vigilance!—come, that's capital!”
“Why, you'll vall asleep avore half the night be over.”
“What! sleep upon my post!—never, Saul,—never.”
“You'll prance up and down there all night, I'll war'nt, then, and 20 keep me from getting a bit of rest:—you be aveard to lie down, ay, or zit.”
“I am afraid of nothing and nobody,” replied Abel, indignantly; “and you know it, neighbour Braintree: but no sneering of yours, will tempt me; I'm up to thee, Saul; so be quiet;—or say your prayers. I'm never so fit to serve my King and country, or the parochial authorities, as when my wits are sharpened by an extra cup or two.”
“Or dree, I z'pose?” added Saul.—“Poor zoul! thee wants a little spirit put into thee.”
“I want spirit! when did I lack it?” exclaimed Abel.—“Not a man in the parish ever attempts to raise a hand against me.”
“No, truly, Yeabel; I'll zay this vor thee, thou'rt such a weak, harmless, old body, that a man would as zoon think of wopping his grandmother as wopping thee.”