"Does ta think we shall get made into sargents?" axed Slinger.

"I lad, an corporals too, aw'll be bun; but bowd thi whisht, whatever
tha does--we'll come for thi as sooin as we want thi; does ta think tha
could sup a drop o' summat if tha had it?"

"Aw wish aw'd chonce, that's all.'"

"Well, bide thi time, an aw'll send thi some."

Jim then walked away, an leavin' Slinger screwed up like a dishclaat, he
went into th' haase, and call'd for a quart.

"Well, what's come o' Slinger?" said Molly.

"Oh, he's all reight--he's gooin through his degrees to get made into a
sargent or a corporal or some other sort ov a ral, but aw'll bet he'll
wish it wor his funeral afoor aw've done wi' him."

Jimmy sat comfortably suppin' his stiffshackle an smokin' a bit o'
bacca, an tried by all th' means in his power to wheedle th' owd woman
into his way o' thinkin'.

"Tha mud do wor nor ha' me mun" he said, "aw'm nut ovver handsome aw
know, but ther's nowt abaght me to flay onybody."

"Ther'll nubby be freetened o' thee lad, tha need'nt think," shoo says,
"for tha reminds me ov a walkin' cloaas peg--if tha'd been split a bit
heigher up tha'd ha' done for a pair o' cart shafts."