He wore a colour as fresh as on Christmas morning, and seemed none the worse for his adventure.
"Hello!" he called, pulling up the mare; "'mornin', Uncle Issy-- 'mornin', father." "Same to you, my son.

Whither away ?--as the man said once." "Aye, whither away ?" chimed Uncle Issy; "for the pilchards be all gone up Channel these two months." "To Liskeard, for a chest-o'-drawers." Young Zeb, to be ready for married life, had taken a house for himself--a neat cottage with a yard and stable, farther up the coombe.

But stress of business had interfered with the furnishing until quite lately.
"Rate meogginy, I suppose, as befits a proud tradesman." "No: painted, but wi' the twiddles put in so artfully you'd think 'twas rale.

So, as 'tis a fine day, I'm drivin' in to Mister Pennyway's shop o' purpose to fetch it afore it be snapped up, for 'tis a captivatin' article.

I'll be back by six, tho', i' time to get into my clothes an' grease my hair for the courant, up to Sheba." "Zeb," said his father, abruptly, "'tis a grand match you'm makin', an' you may call me a nincom, but I wish ye wasn'." "'Tis lookin' high," put in Uncle Issy.
"A cat may look at a king, if he's got his eyes about en," Old Zeb went on, "let alone a legacy an' a green cart.