"'Tisn' like that at all. . . . You see, Sam's a far-seein' man, or
I've tried to make him so. I reckon there's no man in Polpier'll
turn out in a kit smellin' stronger of camphor, against the moth.
Twice this week I've had it out an' brushed it, fingerin' (God help
me) the clothes an' prayin' no shell to strike en, here or there.
. . . Well, an' last autumn, bein' up to Plymouth, he bought an extry
pair of sea-boots, Yarmouth-made, off some Stores on the Barbican,
an' handed 'em over to Billy to pickle in some sort o' grease that's
a secret of his own to make the leather supple an' keep it from
perishin'. He've gone down to fetch 'em; an' there's no
Sabbath-breakin' in a deed like that, when a man's country calls en."

"'Tis terrible sudden, all this," said Nicky-Nan, ruminating.

"'Tis worse than sudden. Here we be, with orders to clear out before
Michaelmas: and how be I to do that, with my man away? Think of all
the great lerrupin' furnicher to be shifted an' (what's harder)
stowed in a pokey little cottage that wasn' none too big for Aun'
Bunney when she lived. An' sixteen steps up to the door, with a turn
in 'em! Do 'ee mind what a Dover-to-pay there was gettin' out the
poor soul's coffin? An' then look at the size of my dresser. . . ."

"I can't think why you turn out, for my part. Pamphlett's served me
with notice to quit by to-morra. You don't catch me, though."

"Why, Mr Nanjivell, you won't set yourself up to fly in the teeth of
the law!"

"Just you wait. . . . And Pamphlett doesn' know all the law that's in
the land, neither, if he reckons to turn me out 'pon a Bank Holiday."