“But thee’s fond o’ thy poor old mither, Joe; I knows thee be, and sends her a shillin’ a week out o’ thy wages; don’t thee, Joe?”
This was an awkward thrust, and pricked the lad in his most sensitive part. His under-lip drooped, his mouth twitched, and his eyes glistened. He was silent.
“Where’ll thy poor old mither get a shilling a week from noo, Joe? That’s what I wants to know.”
Joe drew his sleeve over his face, but bore up bravely withal. _He_ wasn’t going to cry, not he.
“Thee beest a silly feller to leave a good ooame and nine shillin’ a week to goo a sogerin; and when thee was out o’ work, there were allays a place for thee, Joe, at the fireside: now, warnt there, Joe?”
“Lookee ’ere, maister, I be for betterin’ myself.”
“Betterin’ thyself? who put that into thy silly pate? thic sergeant, I bleeve.”
“So ur did; not by anything ur said, but to see un wi beef steaks and ingons for supper, while I doan’t ’ave a mouthful o’ mate once a week, and work like a oarse.”
“Poor silly feller—O dear, dear! whatever wool I tell Nancy and thy poor mither. What redgimen be thee in, Joe?”
“Hooroars! hoo-devils!” and I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin’s eyes began to glisten as he more and more realized the fact that Joe was no more to him—“thee manest the oosors, thee silly feller; a pooty oosor thee’ll make!”
“I tellee what,” said Joe, whose pride was now touched, “Maister Sergeant said I wur the finest made chap he ever see.”
“Noa didn’t; I went o’ my own free will. No man should persuade I—trust Joe for thic: couldn’t persuade I to goo, nor yet not to goo.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Miss Prettyface, with her sweet little voice.
“And thee sewed the colours on; didn’t thee, Miss?”
“Joe,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “I be mortal sorry for thee; what’ll I do wirout thy evidence? Lawyer Prigg say thee’s the most wallible witness for I.”
“Lookee ’ere, maister, ere we bin ’anging about for weeks and weeks and no forrerder so far as I can see. When thy case’ll come on I don’t bleeve no man can tell; but whensomdever thee wants Joe, all thee’ve got to do is to write to the Queen, and she’ll gie I leave.”
“O thee silly, igerant ass!” said Mr. Bumpkin; “I can’t help saying it, Joe—the Queen doan’t gie leave, it be the kernel. I know zummut o’ sogerin, thee see; I were in th’ militia farty year agoo: but spoase thee be away—abraird? How be I to get at thee then?”