It was anūdder het mwornin’, an’ I hedn’t woak’t far till I begon to think that I was as gūrt a feul as t’oald jolly jist to carry brocken steàns o’ t’ way to Skeàl-hill, when I may’d finnd plenty iv any rwoad side, clwose to t’ spot I was tackin’ them tul. Sooa I shack’t them oot o’ t’ pwokes, an’ then stept on a gay bit leeter widout them.
When I com nār to Skeàl-hill, I fūnd oald Aberram Atchisson sittin on a steul breckan steàns to mend rwoads wid, an’ I ax’t him if I med full my ledder pwokes frae his heap. Aberram was varra kaim’ t’ an’ tell’t ma to tak them ’at wasn’t brocken if I wantit steàns, sooa I tell’t him hoo it was an’ oa’ aboot it. T’ oald maizlin was like to toytle of his steul wid laughin’, an’ said me mūdder sud tak gud care on ma, for I was ower sharp a chap to leeve varra lang i’ this warld; but I’d better full my pwokes as I liked, an’ mak’ on wid them.
T’ jolly jist hed just gitten his breakfast when I gat to Skeàl-hill, an’ they teuk ma intil t’ parlour tul him. He gūrned oa’t feàce ower when I went in wid his bags, an’ tell’t me to set them doon in a neuk, an’ than ax’t ma if I wad hev some breakfast. I said I’d gitten me poddish, but I dudn’t mind; sooa he tell’t them to bring in some mair coffee, an’ eggs, an’ ham, an’ twoastit breid an’ stuff, an’ I gat sec a breakfast as I never seed i’ my time, while t’ oald gentleman was gittin’ his-sel’ rūddy to gang off in a carriage ’at was waitin’ at t’ dooar for him.
When he com doon stairs he geh me t’udder five shillin’ an’ pait for my breakfast an’ what he’d gitten his-sel’. Than he tell’t ma to put t’ ledder bags wid t’ steàns in them on beside t’ driver’s feet, an’ in he gat, an’ laugh’t an’ noddit, an’ away he went.
I niver owder seed nor heard mair of t’ oald jolly jist, but I’ve offen thowte ther mun be parlish few steàns i’ his country, when he was sooa pleas’t at gittin’ two lāl ledder bags full for ten shillin’, an’ sec a breakfast as that an’. It wad be a faymish job if fadder could sell o’ t’ steàns iv oor fell at five shillin’ a pwokeful—wadn’t it?
_Another Supplement to “Joe and the Geologist.”_[1]
That Tommy Towman’s a meàst serious leear—an’, like o’ leears, he’s a desper’t feùl. By jing! if I hed a dog hoaf as daft I wad hang’t, that wad I! He gits doon aboot Cockerm’uth an’ Wūrki’ton, noo’s an’ than’s; an’ sūm gentlemen theear, they tak’ him inta t’ Globe or t’ Green Draggin, an’ jūst for nowte at o’ else but acoase they think he kens me, they feed him wid drink an’ they hod him i’ toak till he can hardly tell whedder end on him’s upbank; an’ than they dro’ him on to tell them o’ mak’s o’ teàls—o’ mak’s but true an’s—aboot me; an’ t’ pooar lāl gowk hesn’t gumption aneuf to see ’at they’re no’but makin’ ghem on him. But, loavin’ surs! if he’d hed t’ sense of a gūrse gā’n gezlin he wad niver ha’ browte oot sec a lafter o’ lees as he’s gitten yan o’ them Wūrki’ton gentlemen (yan ’at ken’s weel hoo to write doon oor heàmly toke) to put inta prent; an’ what mak’s yan madder nor o’ t’ rest,—to put them i’ prent jūst as if I’d tel’t them me-sel’. I’s nūt t’ chap to try to cum ower an oald jolly jist wid whinin’ oot “Fadder’s deid!” when ivery body kens ’at fadder’s whicker nor meàst on us. My sarty! he’s nin o’ t’ deein’ mak’ isn’t fadder. Wes’ hev to wūrry fadder when his time cūms, for he’ll niver dee of his-sel’ sa lang as ther’s any wark to hoond yan on tull. An’ I needn’t tell any body ’at knows _me_, ’at I was niver t’ chap to tak’ in owder a jolly jist or any udder feùl; an’ if I was, I’s nūt a likely fellow to be freeten’t for what I’d done. But ther’s m’appen sūm ’at doesn’t; an’ mebbee ther’s a lock ’at doesn’t know what a leear Tommy Towman is, an’ sooa, bee t’ way o’ settin’ me-sel’ reet wid beath maks, I’ll tell yé what _dūd_ gā forret ’atween me an’ t’ jolly jist t’ seckint time he com tul Skeàl-hill.