Sit down an' give
some one else a chance to speak--sit down, you old bag o' wind--"
"Bag o'--" the old man dropped the Spider's nerveless hand to turn to
Mrs. Trapes with a gloomy brow. "You 'eard that, ma'am--you 'eard this
perishin' porker call me a bag o'--Joe, I blush for ye! Ma'am, pore Joe
means well, but 'e can't 'elp bein' a perisher--but"--and here the Old
Un raised and shook a feeble old fist--"I've a good mind t' ketch 'im
one as would put 'im t' sleep for a fortnight--I've a good mind--"
But Mrs. Trapes caught that tremulous fist and drawing the Old Un's arm
through her own, turned to the door.
"You come along with me," said she, "you shall help me t' get the tea;
you shall carry in th' cake an'--"
"Cake!" exclaimed the Old Un, "Oh, j'yful word, ma'am; you're a--a
lidy! An' there's jam, ain't there?"
"Strawberry!"
"Straw--oh, music t' me ears, ma'am--you're a nymp'--lead me to it!" So
saying, the Old Un followed Mrs. Trapes out into the kitchen, while the
Spider stared after him open-mouthed.
"Sufferin' Pete!" he murmured, then, inhaling a long, deep breath,
turned to grasp Joe's mighty, outstretched hand.
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