The Trumpet-Major by Thomas Hardy
page 63 of 455 (13%)
page 63 of 455 (13%)
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'Yes, Maister Derriman, I will. No, 'tis not fit, Maister Derriman.' 'What stock has uncle lost this year, Cripplestraw?' 'Well, let's see, sir. I can call to mind that we've lost three chickens, a tom-pigeon, and a weakly sucking-pig, one of a fare of ten. I can't think of no more, Maister Derriman.' 'H'm, not a large quantity of cattle. The old rascal!' 'No, 'tis not a large quantity. Old what did you say, sir?' 'O nothing. He's within there.' Festus flung his forehead in the direction of a right line towards the inner apartment. 'He's a regular sniche one.' 'Hee, hee; fie, fie, Master Derriman!' said Cripplestraw, shaking his head in delighted censure. 'Gentlefolks shouldn't talk so. And an officer, Mr. Derriman! 'Tis the duty of all cavalry gentlemen to bear in mind that their blood is a knowed thing in the country, and not to speak ill o't.' 'He's close-fisted.' 'Well, maister, he is--I own he is a little. 'Tis the nater of some old venerable gentlemen to be so. We'll hope he'll treat ye well in yer fortune, sir.' |
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