I don't know what would have become of me if it hadn't been for you and Jack Smith." "Ga on," said Billy, who, with his tongue in one cheek and his face twisting into all sorts of contortions, was sitting writing an exercise in a copy-book, "you don't know what you're torkin' about." "Oh yes, I do, though," I replied, understanding that this was Billy's modest way of disclaiming any merit.
"More'n you didn't when you was 'avin' the fever!" observed the boy.
"What ?" I inquired.

"Was I talking much when I was ill ?" "You was so," said Billy, "a-joring and a-joring and a-joring same as you never heard a bloke." "What was I saying ?" I asked, feeling a little uneasy as to what I might have said in my delirium.
"You was a swearin' tremenjus," said the boy.
"Was I ?" Alas! Jack would have heard it all.
"Yes, and you was a-torkin' about your Crowses, and Wollopses, and Doubledaisies, and sich like.

And you was a-tellin' that there 'Orksbury (which I'd like to do for, the animal, so I would), as you was a convex son, and he wasn't to tell no one for fear Mashing should 'ear of it.

And you was a-crying out for your friend Smith to shine your boots, and tellin' him you wouldn't do it never no more.

And you was a- singin' out that there was a little gal a-bein' run away with on a pony, and you must go and stop 'im.