In their midst circulated Farmer Tresidder, with a
three-handled mug of shenachrum, hot from the embers, and furred with
wood-ash.
"Take an' drink, thirsty souls. Niver do I mind the Letterpooch so
footed i' my born days."
"'Twas conspirator--very conspirator," assented Old Zeb, screwing up his
A string a trifle, and turning _con spirito_ into a dark saying.
"What's that?"
"Greek for elbow-grease. Phew!" He rubbed his fore-finger round
between neck and shirt-collar. "I be vady as the inside of a winder."
"Such a man as you be to sweat, crowder!" exclaimed Calvin Oke.
"Set you to play six-eight time an' 'tis beads right away."
"A slice o' saffern-cake, crowder, to stay ye. Don't say no. Hi, Mary
Jane!"
"Thank 'ee, Farmer. A man might say you was in sperrits to-night,
makin' so bold."
"I be; I be."
"Might a man ax wherefore, beyond the nat'ral hail-fellow-well-met of
the season?"
"You may, an' yet you mayn't," answered the host, passing on with the
mug.
"Uncle Issy," asked Jim Lewarne, lurching up, "I durstn' g-glint over my
shoulder--but wud 'ee mind tellin' me if th' old woman's lookin' this
way--afore I squench my thirst?"
"Iss, she be."
Jim groaned.
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