At last Dick gav in; an’ he leant o’er th’ front o’ th’ singin’-pew, wi’ th’ sweat runnin’ down his face; an’ he sheawted across to th’ parson, ’Aw cannot stop it!  I wish yo’d send somebry up.’  Just then owd Pudge, th’ bang-beggar, coom runnin’ into th’ pew, an’ he fot Dick a sous at back o’ th’ yed wi’ his pow, an’ he said, ‘Come here, Dick; thou’rt a foo.  Tak howd; an’ let’s carry it eawt.’  Dick whisked round an’ rubbed his yed, an’ he said, ’Aw say, Pudge, keep that pow to thisel’, or else I’ll send my shoon against thoose ribbed stockin’s o’ thine.’  But he went an’ geet howd, an’ him an’ Pudge carried it into th’ chapel-yard, to play itsel’ out i’th open air.  An’ it yowlt o’ th’ way as they went, like a naughty lad bein’ turn’t out of a reawm for cryin’.  Th’ parson waited till it wur gone; an’ then he went on wi’ th’ sarvice.  When they set th’ organ down i’th chapel yard, owd Pudge wiped his for-yed, an’ he said, ‘By th’ mass, Dick, thae’ll get th’ bag for this job.’  ‘Whau, what for,’ said Dick.  ’Aw ‘ve no skill of sich like squallin’ boxes as this.  If they’d taen my advice, an’ stick’t to th’ bass fiddle, aw could ha stopt that ony minute.  It has made me puff, carryin’ that thing.  I never once thought that it ‘d start again at after th’ hymn wur done.  Eh, I wur some mad!  If aw’d had a shool-full o’ smo’ coals i’ my hond, aw’d hachuck’t ’em into’t....  Yer, tho’, how it’s grindin’ away just th’ same as nought wur.  Aye, thae may weel play th’ Owd Hundred, divvleskin.  Thae’s made a funeral o’ me this mornin’....  But, aw say, Pudge; th’ next time at there’s aught o’ this sort agate again, aw wish thae’d be as good as keep that pow o’ thine to thysel’, wilto?  Thae’s raise’t a nob at th’ back o’ my yed th’ size of a duck-egg; an’ it’ll be twice as big by mornin’.  How would yo like me to slap tho o’ th’ chops wi’ a stockin’-full o’ slutch, some Sunday, when thae’rt swaggerin’ at front o’ th’ parson?’

“While they stood talkin’ this way, one o’th singers coom runnin’ out o’th chapel bare yed, an’ he shouted out ’Dick, thae’rt wanted, this minute!  Where’s that pitch-pipe?  We’n gated wrang twice o’ ready!  Come in, wi’ tho’!’ ‘By th’ mass,’ said Dick, dartin’ back; ‘I’d forgetten o’ about it.  I’se never seen through this job, to my deein’ day.’  An’ off he ran, an’ laft owd Pudge sit upo’ th’ organ, grinnin’ at him....  That’s a nice do, isn’t it, Nanny?”

“Eh,” said the old woman, “I never yerd sich a tale i’ my life.  But thae’s made part o’ that out o’ th’ owd yed, Skedlock.”

“Not a word,” said he:  “not a word.  Yo han it as I had it, Nanny; as near as I can tell.”

“Well,” replied she, “how did they go on at after that?”

“Well,” said he, “I haven’t time to stop to-neet, Nanny; I’ll tell yo some time else, I thought Jone would ha’ bin here by now.  He mun ha’ co’de at ‘Th’ Rompin’ Kitlin’; but, I’ll look in as I go by.’”

“I wish thou would, Skedlock.  An’ dunnot’ go an’ keep him, now; send him forrud whoam.”