‘Well,’ said Isaac, ’let it stop where it is.  There’ll be somebody after this i’th mornin’.’  An’ they had some rare fun th’ next day, afore they geet these things swapt to their gradely places.  However, th’ last thing o’ Saturday neet th’ weshin’-machine wur brought up fro th’ clerk’s, an’ th’ organ wur takken to th’ chapel.”

“Well, well,” said th’ owd woman; “they geet ’em reet at the end of o’, then?”

“Aye,” said Skedlock; “but aw’ve noan done yet, Nanny.”

“What, were’n they noan gradely sorted, then, at after o’?”

“Well,” said Skedlock, “I’ll tell yo.

“As I’ve yerd th’ tale, this new organ wur tried for th’ first time at mornin’ sarvice, th’ next day.  Dick-o’-Liddy’s, th’ bass singer, wur pike’t eawt to look after it, as he wur an’ owd hond at music; an’ th’ parson would ha’ gan him a bit of a lesson, th’ neet before, how to manage it, like.  But Dick reckon’t that nobody’d no ’casion to larn him nought belungin’ sich like things as thoose.  It wur a bonny come off if a chap that had been a noted bass-singer five-and-forty year, an’ could tutor a claronet wi’ ony mon i’ Rosenda Forest, couldn’t manage a box-organ,—­beawt bein’ teyched wi’ a parson.  So they gav him th’ keys, and leet him have his own road.  Well, o’ Sunday forenoon, as soon as th’ first hymn wur gan out, Dick whisper’t round to th’ folk i’th singin’-pew, ’Now for’t!  Mind yor hits!  Aw ‘m beawn to set it agate!’ An’ then he went, an’ wun th’ organ up, an’ it started a-playin’ ‘French;’ an’ th’ singers followed, as weel as they could, in a slattery sort of a way.  But some on ’em didn’t like it.  They reckon’t that they made nought o’ singin’ to machinery.  Well, when th’ hymn wur done, th’ parson said, ‘Let us pray,’ an’ down they went o’ their knees.  But just as folk wur gettin’ their e’en nicely shut, an’ their faces weel hud i’ their hats, th’ organ banged off again, wi’ th’ same tune.  ‘Hello!’ said Dick, jumpin’ up, ‘th’ divle’s oft again, bith mass!’ Then he darted at th’ organ; an’ he rooted about wi’ th’ keys, tryin’ to stop it.  But th’ owd lad wur i’ sich a fluster, that istid o’ stoppin’ it, he swapped th’ barrel to another tune.  That made him warse nor ever.  Owd Thwittler whisper’d to him, ’Thire, Dick; thae’s shapt that nicely!  Give it another twirl, owd bird!’ Well, Dick sweat, an’ futter’t about till he swapped th’ barrel again.  An’ then he looked round th’ singin’-pew, as helpless as a kittlin’; an’ he said to th’ singers, ’Whatever mun aw do, folk?’ an’ tears coom into his e’en.  ‘Roll it o’er,’ said Thwittler.  ‘Come here, then,’ said Dick.  So they roll’t it o’er, as if they wanted to teem th’ music out on it, like ale oat of a pitcher.  But the organ yowlt on; and Dick went wur an’ wur.  ‘Come here, yo singers,’ said Dick, ’come here; let’s sit us down on’t!  Here, Sarah; come, thee; thou’rt a fat un!’ An’ they sit ’em down on it; but o’ wur no use.  Th’ organ wur reet ony end up; an’ they couldn’t smoor th’ sound.