be under the circumstances.

"Thee must be careful, Tom," said Mrs. Bumpkin; "that Lunnun, as I hear,
be a terrible plaace."

"How be un a terrible plaace?" said Bumpkin, sarcastically. "I bean't a
child, Nancy."

"No, thee bean't a child, Tom; but thee bean't up to Lunnun ways: there
be thieves and murderers, and what not."

"Thieves and murderers!"

"And Joe, doan't ee git out o' nights; if anything 'appened to thee, thy
old mother 'ud brak her 'art."

"Look ee 'ere," said Joe, "I bean't got nuthin' to lose, so I bean't
afeared o' thieves."

"No, but thee might git into trouble, thee might be led away."

"So might thic bull," said Joe; "but I'd like to zee what 'ud become o'
the chap as led un."

"Chap as led un!" said Mrs. Bumpkin, laughing.

"I'd gie un a crack o' the canister," said Joe.

"Don't thee git knockin' down, Joe, unless thee be 'bliged," said Mrs.
Bumpkin; "keep out o' bad company, and don't stay out o' nights."

"And lookee 'ere, Joe," said Bumpkin, "when thee comes afore th'
Counsellor wi' wig on, hold up thee head; look un straight in t' face and
spak oop. Thee needn't be afeared t' spak t' truth."

"I bean't afeard," said Joe; "I mind me when old Morris wur at plough,
and I was leadin' th' 'orses, Morris says, says he, 'Now then, cock,
let's see if we can't git a eend this time;' so on we goes, and jist
afore I gits the 'orses to eend o' t' field, Dobbin turns, and then, dash
my bootons, the tother turns after un, and me tryin' to keep em oop,
Dobbin gits his legs over the trace. Well, Morris wur that wild, he
says, says he, 'Damme, if yer doan't look sharp, I'll gie thee a crack o'
t' canister wi' this 'ere whippense presny'" (presently).

"Crack o' the canister!" laughed Mrs. Bumpkin, "and that's what Morris
called thy head, eh?"

This was a capital hit on Joe's part, for it set them thinking of the
events of old times, and Joe, seeing the effect of it, ventured upon
another anecdote relating to the old carter.

"Thee recollect, master, when that there Mr. Gearns come down to shoot;
lor, lor, what a queer un he wur, surely!"

"Couldn't shoot a hit," said Bumpkin.

"Not he. Wall, we was carrying wheat, and Morris wur loadin, and jest as
we gits the last pitch on t' load, right through th' 'orses legs runds a
rat. Gearns wi'out more ado oops wi' his loaded gun and bangs her off
right under t' 'orses legs; up jumps th' 'orse, and Morris wur wery nigh
tossed head fust into