Her'd ha'
corned to gie thee a kiss, if her'd a-been 'n a vit staaete; but her's
zent thee zummat--"
He foraged in the skirt pockets of his threadbare coat and brought
out a paper of sandwiches and a long-nosed apple. I saw the young man
wince.
"Her reckoned you'd veel a wamblin' in the stommick, travellin' arl
the waaey from Hexeter to Plymouth. There, stow it awaaey. Not veelin'
peckish? Never maind: there's a plenty o' taime betwix' this an'
Plymouth."
"No, thanks."
"Tut-tut, now--" He insisted, and the packet, on the white paper
wrapper of which spots of grease were spreading, changed hands. The
little man peered wistfully up into his son's face: his own eyes were
full of love, but seemed to search for something.
"How dost laike it, up to Hexeter: an' how't get along?"
"Kepital--kepital. Give mothaw my love."
"E'es be shure. Fainely plaized her'll be to hear thee'rt zo naicely
adrest. Her'd maaede up her maind, pore zowl, that arl your buttons ud
be out, wi' nobody to zee arter 'en. But I declare thee'rt drest laike
a topsawyer.
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