Finally, when Mr.Fogo had finished he looked up and began abruptly-- "Ef you plaise, sir, I wants to gie warnin'." "Give warning ?" "Iss, sir; notiss to go." And Caleb stared fiercely at his master.
"But, my dear Caleb, you surely don't mean-- ?" "I do, tho'." "Are you dissatisfied with the place or the wages ?" "That's et, sir--the wages." "If they are too low--" "They bain't; they be a darned sight too high." Mr.Fogo leant back in his chair.
"Too high!" he gasped.
"Look 'ee here, sir: here be I, so lazy as La'rence, an' eatin' my head off 'pon a pund a week an' my small-clothes, on condishun I looks arter 'ee.

Very well; what happens?
'Tes Dearlove, Dearlove, Dearlove all the time.

Fust Tamsin brings 'ee back, and then Paul, an' nex' time I reckon 'twill be Peter's turn.

Where-_fore_, sir, seein' I can't offer to share wages wi' the Twins, much less wi' Tamsin, I wants to go." Caleb knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and, rising, stared at his master for some seconds and with much determination.
Mr.Fogo argued the case for some time without effect.

But so sincerely did he paint his helplessness, and nervous aversion to new faces, that at length, after many pros and cons, Caleb consented to give him one more chance.