I yeard it as we was coming up t' lane." "T' church clock's always hafe-an-hour fasst, thee knows." "It isn't!" "It is." "T' church clock's t' one to go by, anyhow," the sexton's son maintained.
His friend guffawed aloud.
"And it's a reight 'un to go by too, my sakes! when thee feyther shifts t' time back'ards and for'ards every Sunday morning to suit hissen." "To suit hissen! To suit t' ringers, ye mean!" said the sexton's son.
"What's thou to do wi' t' ringers ?" was the reply, enforced apparently by a punch in the back, and the two lads came cuffing and struggling up the field, much to my alarm, but fortunately they were too busy to notice us.
Meanwhile, the rest had not been idle at the wall.

Jem had climbed on the cart, and peeping through a brick hole he could see that they had with some difficulty disengaged a very heavy stone.

As we were turning our heads to watch the two lads fighting near our hiding-place, we heard the stone strike with a heavy thud upon the rotten ice below, and it was echoed by a groan of satisfaction from above.
("Ready!" I whispered.) "You'll break somebody's nose when it's frosted in," cried Bob Furniss, in a tone of sincere gratification.
"Eh, Tim Binder! there'll be a rare job for thee feyther next spring, fettling up this wall, by t' time we've done wi' it." "Let me come," we heard Tim say.

"Thou can't handle a stone.

Let me come.