He swears our chaps steals pilkins.

'Twarn't me steals 'em.

What do he tak' and go and do?
He takes and tarns us off, me and another, neck and crop, to scuffle about and starve, for all he keers.
God warn't above the devil then, I thinks.

Not nohow, as I can see!" The tinker shook his head, and said that was a bad case also.
"And you can't mend it," added Speed-the-Plough.

"It's bad, and there it be.