“Well, tha caps me nah!  Does ta think o’ takkin up a share or two?”

“Aw hardly know yet.  If aw tummel ovver as mich on mi way hooam as’ll pay th’ deposit, aw happen shall, but net else.”

“Well, they’ll net be mich i’ my line.  Who does ta think aw met to-day?  Try to guess.”

“Net aw marry!  Awm noa hand at guessin.”

“It wor Jim Wilkins, don’d up like a gentleman.  It licks me whear he gets his brass; if ther isn’t a smash up thear some day awst be capt.  But he ows me nowt.”

“Aw suppose his wife’s a varry highty tighty sooart ov a body.  Shoo’s been browt up at th’ boardin schooil.”

“Why then, shoo’ll be a poor dowdy in a haase.  It’s a queer thing, but eddication seems to mar as mony as it maks.  Aw dooant know what Foster’s bill may do.”

“Is he baan to get wed?”

“Who?”

“Bill Foster.”

“Aw ne’er sed owt abaat Bill Foster, aw mean Foster, M. P. for Bradforth.  He’s browt in a bill to eddicate fowks childer.”

“Ho has he, aw niver heeard on it.”

“Why tha’rt awfully behund hand.”

“Aw may be i’ mi politics, but net i’ me payments, an’ that’s what monny a thaasand connot say.  Aw wonder sometimes ha it wod ha been if iverybody ‘at owed owt had been foorced to put it o’th’ census paper.  But what does ta think abaat old Strap puttin daan all his five childer musicianers?”

“Nay aw dooant know, but he wor allus a foxy sooart ov a chap an’ he’d have some reason for it.  But ha does ta mak it aat ’at they are all musicians?”

“Why, ther’s two bellringers, two drummers, an’ one drum hugger, an they all play off nooats, an’ a varry long way off ’em sometimes.  Did ta hear tell abaat them two lads o’ his havin that do i’th’ church steeple?”

“Noa, indeed aw!  Let’s have it.”

“Well tha knows it happened to be practice neet an’ as Ike wor gooin to th’ church he bowt a sheep’s pluck an’ tuk it wi him, intendin to tak it hooam an have it cooked for ther supper.  He happened to be th’ furst ’at gate into th’ bell chamer, soa he hung th’ sheep pluck up agean th’ wall, an’ then went daan agean, leavin a little lamp burnin i’th’ steeple.  He’d hardly getten off th’ step when his brother coom, an’ findin th’ door oppen he went up; but befoor he gate thear, a gust o’ wind blew aat th’ leet an’ all wor as dark as pitch.  He thowt it wor varry strange for he knew Ike had come before him, soa he bawled aat ‘Ike!’ but nobody spaik.  ‘Aw know tha’rt up here,’ he sed, ’soa let’s ha nooan o’ thi tricks.  Spaik, wi’ ta?” but nowt spaik.  Sid felt rayther freetened, but he began to grope all raand th’ walls, bein sure his brother wor thear i’th’ dark.  All at once his hand coom agean a piece o’ liver, an’ it felt soa cold, an’ soa mich like a face, ’at he started back, an’ as sooin as he could find th’ step, he ran daan as fast as he could, an’ when he gate to th’ bottom he luk’d at