"Don't mind 'im, sir," she advised.

"'E's more'n arf-gorn a'ready, a-'itting the jug every blessed stop." "Now, my dear--" Jake protested.
"Don't you my-dear me," she sniffed.

"I don't like you." "Why ?" "Cos.

.

." She ladled the punch carefully into the mugs and meditated.