They passed out of sight through the archway of Dead Man's Rock.
For a minute or so we plodded across the sand in silence.

Joe Roscorla was Uncle Loveday's "man," a word in our parts connoting ability to look after a horse, a garden, a pig or two, or, indeed, anything that came in the way of being looked after.

At the present moment I came in that way; consequently, after some time spent in reflective silence, Joe began to speak.
"You'm looking wisht." "Am I, Joe ?" "Mortal." There was a pause: then Joe continued-- "I don't hold by furriners: let alone they be so hard to get along with in the way of convarsing, they be but a heathen lot.
But, Jasper, warn't it beautiful ?" "What, Joe ?" "Why, to see the doctor tackle the lingo.

Beautiful, I culls it; but there, he's a scholard, and no mistake, and 'tain't no good for to say he ain't.

Not as ever I've heerd it said." "But, Joe, the man didn't seem to understand him." "Durn all furriners, say I; they be so cursed pigheaded.