But there your gold must be, and something else, most likely.

Plaise to wait a little bit, and us 'll have the wet out of un.

I never should 'a thought of that but for your gold guinea, though." With these words Master Withypool pulled his coat off and rolled up his shirt sleeves, displaying arms fit to hold their own even with Uncle Sam's almost; and then he fell to with his shovel and dug, while I ran with my little spud to help.
"Plaise keep out of way, miss; I be afeard of knocking you.

Not but what you works very brave indeed, miss." Knowing what men are concerning "female efforts," I got out of the strong man's way, although there was plenty of room for me.

What he wanted to do was plain enough--to dig a trench down the empty bed of the Moon River, deep enough to drain that pit before the stream came down again.
"Never thought to run a race against my own old dam," he said, as he stopped for a moment to recover breath.