“Why, doesn’t ta think ’at tha could shorten ’em a bit?  It luks to me as if it ’ll do if them gets shortened, Sally! get up!  Are ta baan to sit thear all th’ day?  Go an’ borrow yond butcher’s saig, an’ then Tom can cut thease foldedols.”

Sally went an’ left’ em booath starin at th’ music box, as shoo called it, an’ when shoo’d gooan th’ landlord walked raand it two or three times, an’ then stoppin i’ front o’ Tom, he said, “Well, Tom, aw allus thowt ‘at tha wor fond o’ tinklin at all sooarts o’ jobs, but aw didn’t gie thee credit for being able to do owt like this.”

“Why, yo’ see, maister, its born i’ some fowk,’ replied Tom.  “Nah when aw wor a lad aw once made a tin whistle aght ov a brass canel-stick, an’ they could ha’ played on it too, but it tuk sich a deal o’ wind, but ther wor a chap ’at used to come to awr haase ’at blew it mony a time.”

“Tha doesn’t say soa!  A’a, what a thing it is to be born wi’ sich a heead as thine; aw wonder tha doesn’t crack thi brain wi’ studdyin soa mich abaght things.  Aw’ve thowt mony a time when aw’ve heeard fowk tawk abaght thee ’at its a thaasand pities thi mother hadn’t twins.”

“Why,” said Tom, “aw think sometimes ’at if aw’d been edicated aw should happen a capt somdy; but that’s Sally’s fooit, aw think.”

Sally browt th’ saig, an’ after a gooid deal o’ squarin abaght, Tom said “Aw think th’ best plan ‘ll be to cut th’ lot off to start wi’, an’ then we can mak ’em what length we want ’em.”

“Suit thi sen, tha owt to knaw,” said th’ landlord, an’ Tom began to saig away.  He’d getten th’ hauf on ’em cut, when up comes th’ chap at they’d borrowed it on.  “I understand you’ve had an accident,” he said, “but I hope its not much worse?”

“Well, it has getten a bit ov a shake,” says Tom, “but aw think we’ll be able to mak it all square agean in a bit.”

“Why, my dear fellow, what are you doing?  You are destroying the whole affair—­you are cutting the action!”

“Action!  What action?  What does ta mean?” says Tom.

“Why, you are cutting the working part all to pieces!”

“Warkin pairt!  Aw’m dooin nowt o’ th’ sooart—­its th’ playing pairt ’at aw’m cuttin; but if aw ammot dooin reight, tak th’ saig an’ lets see ha tha’ll do it.”

“No, indeed—­I shall have nothing to do with it—­the whole thing is ruined; and the landlord will have to pay me for it, so I wish you a very good day.”

Tom an’ th’ landlord watched him aght o’th’ seet, an’ for a minit or two nawther on ’em spake, but ‘at th’ last th’ landlord says, “What’s to be done, Tom? what’s to be done?”

Tom seemed as dumb as th’ peanner an’ dived his hands into his britches pockets varry near up to th’ elbows.

“If aw wor yo maister,” he said, “aw wodn’t bother ony moor wi’ this to day, for ther’s a deal o’ tinklin wark to be done at it afoor its fit for mich; aw’d shove it into a corner an’ say nowt abaght it for fear it might stop th’ tickets for sellin, an’ when fowk have getten ther tea an’ want to donce, ther’s sure some music to turn up throo somewhear.”