Your pipe an't a shrew." "That be it!" the other chimed in.

"Your pipe doan't mak' ye out wi' all the cash Saturday evenin'." "Take one," said the tinker, in the enthusiasm of the moment, handing a grimy short clay.

Speed-the-Plough filled from the tinker's pouch, and continued his praises.
"Penny a day, and there y'are, primed! Better than a wife?
Ha, ha!" "And you can get rid of it, if ye wants for to, and when ye wants," added tinker.
"So ye can!" Speed-the-Plough took him up.

"And ye doan't want for to.
Leastways, t'other case.

I means pipe." "And," continued tinker, comprehending him perfectly, "it don't bring repentance after it." "Not nohow, master, it doan't! And"-- Speed-the-Plough cocked his eye--"it doan't eat up half the victuals, your pipe doan't." Here the honest yeoman gesticulated his keen sense of a clincher, which the tinker acknowledged; and having, so to speak, sealed up the subject by saying the best thing that could be said, the two smoked for some time in silence to the drip and patter of the shower.
Ripton solaced his wretchedness by watching them through the briar hedge.