He's maunderin' about all day long except when he's at the Lion, and then, I reckon, he's maunderin' in another fashion." "Can't you get him to bide by his work ?" "No; it's first a day for John Jackson at Armboth, and then two days for Sammy Robson at the Lion, and what comes one way goes the other.
When he's sober--and that's not often in these days--he's as sour as Mother Garth's plums, and when he's tipsy his head's as soft as poddish." "It was a sad day for Robbie when his old mother died," said Rotha.
"And that was in one of his bouts" said Liza; "but I thought it had sobered him forever.

He loved the old soul, did Robbie, though he didn't always do well by her.

And now he's broken loose again." It was clearly as much as Liza could do to control her tears, and, being conscious of this, she forthwith made a determined effort to simulate the sternest anger.
"I hate to see a man behave as if his head were as soft as poddish.
Not that _I_ care," she added, as if by an afterthought, and as though to conceal the extent to which she felt compromised; "it's nothing to _me_, that I can see.

Only Wythburn's a hard-spoken place, and they're sure to make a scandal of it." "It's a pity about Robbie," said Rotha sympathetically.
Liza could scarcely control her tears.

After she had dashed a drop or two from her eyes, she said: "I cannot tell what it's all about.