CHAPTER III

WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_.

Our country-people, as has been incidentally remarked, are very proud and independent, but I venture to say both their pride and independency are cast in a right groove, and may certainly be classed amongst the chief elements which have made the Yorkshireman the self-reliant mortal which he certainly is. I have already said that he is eminently practical, and I now add hard to convince. Often, I admit, his mode of arguing would puzzle a Philadelphian lawyer, but after all it is argument, if you are only Yorkshire scholar enough to understand his way of handling a subject. The country-people are hard to convince, and no respecters of person.

Mary W—-—- had for many years received a dole of ten shillings every Christmas for coals, but having obtained regular work at the Hall, the vicar rightly decided that five shillings in future would meet her circumstances, the more so as there were many other deserving cases. At the time appointed he left five shillings with Mary’s daughter, the mother being out at the time. On her return she was told of the vicar’s call, and of the five shillings which he had left. ‘And what did you do, Mary?’ asked a lady, some short time afterwards. ‘Deea! deea! Whya, Ah ’ed t’ fahve shillin’ seal’d an’ posted back agaan tiv him, afore he left t’ village. Ah’m nut that poor ’at Ah want for fahve shillin’; an’ if Ah can’t be treated like a lady wi’ ten shillin’, Ah weean’t be maad a pauper on; neea, nut if t’ archbishop war ti cum wiv it hissel.’

Chatting one day with a very old friend of mine, the Vicar of —-, he gave me the following:—‘In my younger days,’ said he, ‘I was brought up amongst the South-country peasantry, and for some time after I came into the North Riding I was greatly surprised at the small amount of deference paid to me as their pastor. So marked was this, that I determined if possible to discover the reason; so one day I entered into conversation with a blunt but honest old stone-breaker I found hard at work by the roadside. “Now, Willie,” said I, “you are hard at it.” “Aye,” said he, “Ah’ve gitten ti arn my bit; ya’ve nivver ’ed ti deea a stroak foor yours.” Not heeding his remark—which, by the way, a South-country man of like position would never dared have uttered—I asked: “How is it, Willie, that none of the villagers ever touch their caps or the women curtsy when they meet me?” I know it was a bit snobbish to ask such a question, but I had good reason for so doing: I wished to find out if I was in any way remiss. “Touch wer caps an’ co’tsey!” said he, still continuing to break his stones. “Wa’ve neea call ti deea owther t’ ane or tither; wa knaw varra larl aboot ya ez yit.” “But I am your pastor,” I urged, feeling at that time that was all-sufficient. “That coonts fer larl,” said the old fellow. “Ther’s good uns an’ bad uns ov all soarts. Ah tell ya ’at wa knaw varra larl aboot ya ez yit. Wa s’all finnd oot efter a bit what soart o’ stuff yer maad on, bud ya’ll ’a’e ti treead yer teeas cannily, or wa s’aan’t tak ti ya at all.” All this,’ said my old friend, ’at that time was a complete revelation to me. Up to then I had been used, anyway before my face, to something approaching servility, and here was a stone-breaker plainly telling me I should have to be very careful, and doing so without so much as ceasing his work.’ Let me add, the stone-breaker has been laid to rest now many a year, and the flock has fully recognized the vicar as their shepherd, and as one worthy both of their love and respect; and in their way they give the one and show the other in a marked degree. It takes a little time to get at the bottom of our people, but the trying to do so always brings a plenteous reward.

Mr. Pawson by nature was bumptious. He was distinctly of the genus _novus homo_. He came to the village as a stranger, and built himself a house, and from the day he came to reside therein, figuratively speaking, he began to push the villagers about. ‘He’ll stritch t’ lastic’ (elastic) ’whahl it flees back an’ smacks him i’ t’ feeace,’ said one. And he did. It happened this way. One day, turning to a small pig-jobber, he said, ‘Jackson, tell one of your lads to take my dog back to the house; and, Jackson, he had better call at the saddler’s and take some repairs along at the same time.’ Now, as has been already remarked, this addressing the country folk by their surname is deeply resented; and in the case of Mr. P. there was almost open rebellion. Jackson, however, was in no way dependent on the self-elected squire; so, winking to the bystanders, he said, ‘All reet; bud Ah saay, Mr. Pawson, Ah think ’at ya owt ti saay Mister when ya speeak ti ma. Ya knaw fau’k’s saying ’at maist leyklings wa s’all seean be related, ez mah au’dest lad’s gitten his e’e on that eldest lass o’ yours.’ The roar of laughter which followed was—well, I pity Mr. Pawson.

A lady of ample means, whose one desire was to do good to others, found the people very difficult to approach when she first came amongst them. As a fact, she knew nothing of the idiosyncrasy of the Yorkshire people. Said she one day to an old Yorkshire dame whom she had weeding her garden: ‘Bessy, how is it the people do not take kindly to me? I am most wishful to help them, and to make them my friends, but they won’t let me; how is it?’ ‘Whya, ya see wa’re a larl bit different mebbe ti t’ fau’k ’at you’ll ’a’e been amang, afoor ya cam inti these pairts; Ah’ve allus fun’ ya varra canny ti deea wi’ mysen, Ah will saay that.’ ‘Yes, but how is it the other cottagers do not seem pleased to see me when I call?’ ‘Whya, mebbins Ah c’u’d tell ya, bud Ah deean’t knaw ’at Ah s’u’d be deeaing mysen onny good if Ah did,’ said Bessy, cautiously. ‘But I should be greatly obliged to you if you would.’ ‘Aye, ya saay seea noo, bud ya’d leyklings git yer back up if Ah tell’d ya.’ ‘No, indeed I won’t; I am really wishful to know.’ ‘Oha, whya noo, when ya gi’e ma yer wo’d on ’t, Ah s’ ‘a’e ti gi’e ya a bit ov an inkling. Noo, it’s leyke this, mum: wa deean’t tak kindly ti fau’k ’at tak liberties wiv uz. Noo, Ah deean’t want ti saay owt ’at’ll vex ya, bud neea doot, bidoot meeaning it, ya tak a gert deal upon yersen.’ ‘In what way?’ asked the lady, being quite unaware of ever having done anything of the kind. ‘Whya noo, for yah thing, ya nivver knock at neeabody’s deear; ya just lift t’ sneck an’ cross t’ deearstan ez if t’ pleeace belang’d ti ya. An’ Ah’ll tell ya anuther thing whahl Ah’s aboot it: ya ass[2] a seet ti monny quessions for yan ’at isn’t varra weel knawn ti yan. Ya s’u’dn’t deea seea. Ya wadn’t be sae setten up noo, if yan ov uz cam an’ walked wersens inti your parlour, bidoot knocking or owt, an’ started ti ass ya quessions aboot all manner o’ macks an’ mander o’ things, noo wad ya? Noo, wa ar’n’t aboon awning wer betters; bud, mahnd ya, wer betters ’ez ti wait whahl wa deea’t, an’ they ’ev ti let uz deea’t i’ wer awn waay an’ all, an’ ther’s nowt aboot that,’ concluded Bessy. Let me add, the lady took the hint, and in time learnt to love the plain-spoken people she had come to live amongst; and they gave their love in return tenfold, which, if rugged and rough at the edges, only enables you to get a firmer grip of it.

Just a few illustrations proving the practical side of our character.

In the village schoolroom a lecturer very learnedly and emphatically discoursed on the human eye. Amongst other things he declared the eye could quell the most savage beast. ‘Ah saay,’ said a sturdy farmer at the close of the lecture, ‘deea ya ho’d ti be trew all ’at ya’ve been telling uz aboot wer e’es?’ On assuring him every word was quite true, the lecturer was somewhat staggered by the farmer’s desire for a practical proof. ‘Whya then,’ said he, ‘Ah’ll tell ya what, Ah deean’t believe owt ’at ya’ve tell’d uz; an’ mair ’an that, if you’ll cum up ti mah hoos ti morn at morn, Ah’ll gi’e ya a chance ti tell mah ’at Ah’s wrang. Noo, leeak here, if you’ll gan inti mah paddock, Ah’ll gie ya leave ti e’e mah bull ez mich ez ivver ya leyke, an’ if he dizn’t shift ya afoor ya can count fo’tty, Ah’ll gi’e ya leave ti tak him yam wi’ ya. Bud you’ll be shifted.’ A friend calling to see one who was seriously ill, said just before parting, ‘Whya noo, thoo maun’t gi’e waay; thoo mun keep thi pluck up, or else it’ll be owered wi’ tha.’ ‘Aye, mun!’ said the invalid, ‘bud it’s hard ti keep yan’s pluck up, when yan feels all ov a shutther. Ah’ll tell tha what, if summat dizn’t sthraangely alter, Ah’s foor off, an’ ther’s nowt can ho’d ma back.’ ‘Oha well,’ said the visitor, ‘thoo owt ti knaw t’ best; bud whativver thoo diz, thoo maun’t dee iv a horry’ (hurry). ‘It’s fowr mile ti t’ chetch, an’ thoo’s na leet weight, an Ah s’u’d be bidden, an’ ‘a’e ti len’ a han’ ti hug tha. Liggin i’ bed a bit taks yan doon a lot; thoo mun try ti hing on a week or tweea, hooivver.’

Old I—— of Masham, a well-known jobber in days past, was once asked for a loan. But I will give the story as given to me years ago by William Scorrer, than whom a finer specimen of the old school of Yorkshiremen never lived, and to whom I am indebted for many of the best stories and other information in this book. Could you but have heard the old man tell them—old! why, he never looked old, and he was nearly eighty when I knew him—but you never will hear him; he has stepped over the line. His style, raciness, and everything which goes to make a Yorkshire story worth listening to, were lost when the grave closed over his last remains. At least, that is to my way of thinking. I know scores of people who can tell a Yorkshire story, and tell it admirably, perfect as to dialect, and humorously, too; but still, there always lacks that something—I mean crispness; no, sparkle is the word—which the old chap always managed to give just at the right moment. ‘Requiescat in pace.’

Pardon me, I will to the story. Old I—— was at Northallerton Market, when another jobber rushed up to him. ‘Ah saay,’ said he, ‘c’u’d ta mannish ti len’ uz fahve pund. Ah finnd mysel that sho’t, an’ Ah s’all loss a grand bargain if Ah caan’t leet on sumbody ’at ’ll len’ uz ’t.’ ‘Whya, thoo knaws, Bill,’ said I——, ‘Ah deean’t ho’d wi’ lennin’; ta knaws it offens maks frien’s leeak shy at yan anuther; bud if so be ’at thoo’s gahin ti miss a bargain, whya, Ah mun stritch a point foor yance, bud, mahnd tha, thoo ’ezn’t ti mak a common practis on ’t. Noo, when diz ta think ’at thoo’ll be yabble ti pay ’t back? An’ what ’ez ta gitten, ’at thoo’s gahin ti ’liver up ez security?’ ‘Whya, Ah’ll let tha ’a’e my watch, an’ Ah’ll gi’e tha mah wo’d——.’

‘Nivver mahnd thi wo’d, let’s leeak at t’ watch. Ah tell tha what,’ said I——, when he had the watch in his hand, ‘thoo mebbins sets gert store byv it thisen, bud tha’d bunch tha oot ov a pawn shop if thoo war brazzen’d eneeaf ti ass a pund for ’t. When can ti let mah ’ev it back?’ ‘Ah’ll gi’e tha ’t at Bedale next Tuesday.’ ‘Whya noo, Ah’ll trust tha for yance, bud it’s mair ’an what thi awn feyther ’ud deea. Noo thoo maun’t tak ma in; Ah s’all leeak for tha ti’ pay ’t back when Ah see tha at Bedale.’ To Bill’s credit, the money was paid the week following. But a fortnight afterwards he again begged for a loan, this time for fifteen pounds. ‘Neea!’ said I——, ‘thoo teeak mah in yance; Ah’ll nut trust tha na mair.’ ‘Teeak tha in! Didn’t Ah pay tha back hard eneeaf at Bedale, when Ah tell’d tha Ah wad?’ ‘Aye, thoo paid ma back all reet, bud Ah nivver thowt ’at thoo wad; naay, thoo’s ta’en ma in yance, Ah weean’t be on agaan.’

That by nature the Tyke is tenacious of his opinion, and hard to convince, may be taken as an axiom. I have referred to this before, but this is a convenient opportunity to produce proofs of the same.

For years, old Sykes and Hobson, though neighbours, had been on unfriendly terms. Years back, Sykes had found on several occasions a certain gate thrown off its hinges. Whether he held any proof, history does not recount, but he blamed Hobson for doing it. Hobson, however, stoutly denied all knowledge of the affair. Anyway, for long they remained about as unfriendly as they well could; until one day, Hobson, at the risk of his life, rescued Sykes’ lad from drowning. On hearing of the rescue, Sykes hurried away to thank Hobson. They met in one of the latter’s fields. ‘Whya, noo then,’ began Sykes, ‘Ah’ve cum’d ti shak tha byv t’ han’; thoo’s saved my bairn, an’ Ah’s behodden ti tha foor awlus. Noo wa s’all ’a’e ti let bygones be bygones, an’ start afresh. Thoo knaws wa used ti hit it off all reet yance ower; noo, what diz ta saay?’ ‘Wha, mun, ther’s my hand on ’t, an’ Ah’s mair ’an glad ’at wa’ve hap’t t’ au’d sore up at last; an’ ez thoo sez, wa mun start afresh, just ez if nivver nowt ’ed cum’d atween uz’ So they shook hands, and talked farming for an hour or so, until it was time for Sykes to return. Shaking Hobson by the hand, he said, ‘Noo thoo knaws Ah s’all nivver be yabble ti mak it up ti tha for saving t’ lad, an’ Ah’s reet glad ’at Ah can gan yam an’ tell t’ missus ’at thee an’ me’s kind agaan, an’ Ah whoap ’at wa s’all awlus keep seea. Bud mahnd tha, Ah still ho’d ti ’t ’at it war thoo ’at flang t’ yat offen t’ creeaks,’ i.e. ‘But bear in mind, I still think it was you who flung the gate off the hinges.’

Old Hall, a well-known character in one of our dales, was the doctor for miles round, and proud was the village wherein he actually resided. He was more than doctor, he was the vet. as well; he read the lessons in church; in fact, he was the father of the village. He was consulted, and his advice acted upon in all things which are incident to a village community. And then he died, and a new doctor took his place—top hat, frock-coat, and everything. Some little time after his arrival, Wilson’s cow died, and the death of the said cow was fully discussed the day following, in the blacksmith’s shop. ‘What did ta gi’e it?’ asked one. ‘Nowt. Hoo mud Ah knaw what ti git for ’t?’ ‘Did ta gan for t’ doctor?’ asked another. ‘Aye, an’ he war neean sae setten up, at being fetched oot o’ bed i’ t’ middle o’ t’ neet.’ ‘Warn’t he! What did he saay?’ ‘He tell’d ma ’at he warn’t a coo doctor, an’ knew nowt aboot ’em.’ ‘Did he saay that?’ asked the smith slowly, resting on his hammer, as he waited for an answer. ‘Aye, an’ he tell’d ma ti gan yam an’ nivver wakken him up na mair on sike an earand,’ ‘Wha, then,’ said the smith very deliberately, ‘he’s nut a Hall! an’ he mud just ez weel teeam his stuff oot, an’ quit his bottles foor au’d glass. Foor Ah meean ti saay ’at a chap ’at dizn’t knaw nowt aboot t’ innards’ (the inside) ‘of a coo, an’ hosses, an’ pigs, an’ sike leyke, isn’t gahin ti practis on onny ov uz, ’coz if he ’ezn’t gitten them off, he caan’t knaw nowt aboot oor innards, foor wa’re a seet mair intrickiter’ (intricate) ’na onny o’ t’ dumb critters. He’s nut a Hall, an’ he’s na ewse tiv uz.’ The oracle having spoken, it was agreed on all hands that it was so. And from that moment the influence of that man as a doctor ceased.

Here is another, which brings out a trait I purpose touching upon afterwards. Incidentally, I may mention, a bargain is a bargain, and must be maintained and carried out as originally agreed upon. The story, however, I give as an illustration of how hard it is to convince our people that their preconceived notion on any subject is wrong.

It was quite four miles from a certain house to the village, and as the gardener was often required to go thither for one thing or another, his master bought him a bicycle, thinking to make the journey easier for him. A few days after the machine had been presented, John said, ‘Noo, sir, Ah wanted ti ’ev a wo’d wi’ ya. Noo, when Ah cam, Ah cam for ti be t’ gardener, an’ ti deea onny odd jobs ’at wanted deeaing. Bud, ya knaw, Ah s’all want a bit mair a week if Ah’ve ti larn ti mannish yon thing’—jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the tool-house, where the byke was kept. ‘Ya knaw, sir, ther warn’t nivver nowt at no tahm owt sed aboot a bisittle, an’ Ah s’ want a bit mair afoor Ah tattle yon thing. Noo, hoo mich is ’t ti be?’ The master pointed out that it was for his (the gardener’s) own comfort, and to lighten the journey to and from the village, he had been induced to buy the bicycle. ‘Whya, noo, Ah deean’t knaw sae mich aboot that,’ said John; ‘it soonds weel eneeaf t’ waay ’at you put it; ther’s nowt aboot that, bud Ah’ve leeaked fother inti ’t ’an what yow ’ev. Noo, leeak here, it taks me nigh on ti tweea hoors an’ a hauf ti gan an’ cum walking; noo, hoo lang is ’t gahin ti tak ma ti deea ’t o’ yon thing?’ ‘When you get used to it, you will run there and back easily in an hour.’ ‘Oha, s’all Ah! Then that’ll be leyke an hoor an’ a hauf ti t’ good.’ ‘Yes, you will save quite that.’ ‘Then when Ah git back, s’all Ah ’a’e ti sit ma doon an’ deea nowt for t’ hoor an’ t’ hauf?’ ‘Sit down and do nothing! Certainly not; you will go on with your work.’ ‘Aye, Ah thowt seea; an’ that’s what maks ma saay ’at ya’ll ’a’e ti gi’e ma a larl bit mair, ez Ah’s gahin ti put sa monny mair hoors’ wark in i’ t’ week. Ya see, you reckon yah waay, an’ Ah reckon another, an’ Ah think Ah’s i’ t’ reet on ’t.’

Those who have given the slightest attention to the various traits which are so interesting in the character of our people, will not have failed to notice one which is very pronounced. I mean the objection they have to showing, and the cleverness they display in hiding, their ignorance on any matter. If in speaking to our country people you use a word which they do not understand, they never let you know that they do not catch your meaning: they wait until you say ’summat else,’ in the hope that they may gather therefrom what you mean; and if you do not happen to say anything which throws light upon the unknown word, well, there the matter ends, and as a rule it does not trouble them for one moment. A farm labourer fell off a bicycle, and sprained his arm very severely; the doctor, a young locum, and a trifle pedantic, gave him a bottle of lotion, saying, as he did so, ‘Your arm will be all right in a few days: you have strained your biceps, you must rub it well with this lotion.’ ‘What diz ta think on him?’ asked one, who had been waiting outside. ‘Whya, he’s nowt bud a fondheead, is yon. What diz ta think? He sez ’at Ah’ve spraaned my airm, an’ he’s gi’en ma a bottle o’ stuff ti rub t’ bisittle wiv; let’s gan ti t’ bone-setter.’ A lady visiting a poor young fellow who was seriously ill, and very feverish, said to the mother, ‘Your son is very ill, I fear.’ ‘He is that, mum; he’s nut foor lang doon here. Hooivver, wa’ve deean t’ best ’at lay i’ wer power, an’ yan isn’t yabble ti deea na mair ’an that. Bud Ah’s pleeased ti saay ’at wa’ve gitten eneeaf saved up ti put him deeacently by, an’ that’s a blessing. It’ll be a beautiful funeral, mum, an’ wa’ve let him saay whau’s ti be bidden; an’ Ah deean’t think he’s forgitten yan ov his au’d frien’s—bud he awlus was thowtful.’ ‘That is very nice,’ said the lady, for she understood something of the people and their ways. ‘I will send you a couple of ice wafers,’ said she, thinking they would be nice for him to cool his lips with. ‘I think your son will like them, he seems so feverish.’ Next day, when she inquired how the patient was, the poor mother said, with tears in her eyes, ‘Thank ya, mum, Ah think he’s warse.’ ‘Did he like the wafers?’ she inquired, adding, ‘you can have more.’ ‘Well, mum,’ said the mother, ‘Ah c’u’dn’t saay foor sartin whether he liked ’em or nut. Ya see, ez seean ez ya sent ’em, Ah put him t’ white yan on his chist; bud he ’pleeaned ’at it felt varra cau’d, an’ seea Ah teeak it off, an’ put t’ pink un on a plate i’ front o’ t’ fire ti warm. Bud Ah think t’ cat must ’a’e gitten ’t, foor it war gone when Ah went for’t. So ya see, iv a waay, he ’adn’t a fair go wiv ’em. Bud you needn’t send na mair, he’s gahin fast noo.’

A gentleman said to a Yorkshire dame, ‘Your little chap looks very robust.’ ‘Aye, an’ your larl chap leeaks t’ saame,’ said she; not in the least knowing what ’robust’ meant. ‘Nay, nay,’ said the gentleman; ‘I only wish he was’—glancing at the very weakly child he held by the hand. The dame perceived she had made a mistake, so added, ‘Whya he seean wad be’; and then, not quite certain of her ground, or where ‘robust’ was going to land her, continued, ‘bud then yan nivver knaws.’ When the gentleman had left the group, one of the bystanders said, ‘Dolly, what diz ro-bust meean?’ ‘Deean’t ass me, Ah’ve na mair idea na t’ man i’ t’ meean,’ said she. ‘Then what maad ta saay ’at his bairn leeaked t’ saame ez what he sed thahn did?’ ‘Whya, Ah thowt ’at if he war calling mah bairn naames, Ah’d let him ’ev ez good ez he sent; whahl, if he war sayin’ summat i’ praise on ’t, Ah sud be deeaing t’ saame byv his.’

On another occasion, a village dame entered the doctor’s visiting-room. ‘Noo, then,’ she commenced, ‘gie ma summat, an’ leeak sharp aboot it, fer Ah is badly; Ah can nowther bahd ti sit doon, stan’ up, ner nowt.’ ‘What is the matter with you?’ inquired the doctor. ‘Naay, what; it’s neea ewse assing me, Ah’ve cumd to see you aboot that.’ ‘Well, but what ails you?’ ‘Aals ma! Ah’ve gitten galloping paans all reet roond aboot ivverywheear; Ah is badly.’ ‘But what have you been doing to get them?’ ‘Whya, Ah can think o’ nowt bud, t’ daay afoor yesterdaay, Ah war weshin’, an’ Ah mun ’a’e kept a damp ap’on on, an’ Ah aim ’at it’s gi’en ma cau’d all reet roond aboot ivverywheer.’ ‘Now I know what’s the matter with you. Here’s a bottle for you; take it home, and you had better drink a teaspoonful every ten minutes, and it will be best if you take it in a recumbent position,’ said he, handing Martha the bottle. Now, ‘recumbent position’ was quite outside Martha’s vocabulary; she had not the least idea what he meant, but she was not going to expose her ignorance by asking. So off home she set, saying to herself as she went along, ‘“Re-cum-bunt po-zition;” noo what diz that mean?’ However, Yorkshire like, she hit upon a plan of getting to know, without exposing her own ignorance. Calling on a neighbour as she passed by, she shouted, ‘‘Liza Jane, Ah’ve been ti t’ doctor, an’ he’s gi’en ma a bottle o’ stuff, an’ Ah ’ev ti tak a speeanful on ’t ivvery ten minits; bud he sez ’at Ah ’ev ti tak it in a recumbunt po-zition. Bud thoo knaws Ah ’evn’t gitten yan, an’ Ah thowt mebbe ’at thoo’d be seea good ez ti let ma ’a’e t’ len’ o’ thahn; will ta?’ Liza Jane knew no more what ’recumbunt po-zition’ meant than Martha, but she was not going to give herself away, so she replied, ‘Ah wad ’a’e deean sa wi’ t’ gertest o’ pleasure i’ t’ wo’lld, nobbut Ah lent mahn yisterday. Bud ez thoo gans up t’ village, call in at t’ shop an’ buy yan for thisen, an’ then thoo’ll ’ev it at heeam when thoo wants it; an’ if tha ’evn’t gitten yan, buy a mug—it’ll deea just t’ seeam.’

One more. Bessy having explained to the doctor that her husband was suffering from a fearful pain in the head, was ordered to apply the half-dozen leeches which he gave her. Now, had the doctor said, ‘stick ’em on,’ or ’clap ’em on,’ Bessy would have known what she had to do with them. However, she had half a dozen leeches to do something with, so she went home and did her level best. A couple of days after, the doctor, seeing Bessy, asked her how John was. ‘Oh, he’s all reet noo. Them things capped him; tha did, hooivver.’ ‘You managed all right, did you, Bessy?’ asked he. ‘Whya, Ah caan’t saay ’at wa mannished sa weel wi’ t’ fo’st un ’at Ah gav’ him; he chow’d on wi’ ‘t, bud he c’u’d catch ho’d on ’t neea road, soa Ah boil’d him t’ rest, an’ he sluthered ’em doon neycely.’