"Sit thee down, tha'st getten a walk both afore and behind thee. What book 'st getten under thy arm?"
Jud regarded the volume with evident pride and exultation.
"It's Robyson Crusoe, that theer is," he answered.
Sammy shook his head dubiously.
"Dunnot know as I ivver heerd on him. He's noan scripter, is he?"
"No," said Jud, repelling the insinuation stoutly; "he is na."
"Hond him over, an' lets ha' a look at him."
Jud advanced.
"Theer's picters in it," he commented eagerly. "Theer's one at th' front. That theer un," pointing to the frontispiece, "that theer's him."
Sammy gave it a sharp glance, then another, and then held the book at arm's length, regarding Robinson's goatskin habiliments over the rims of his spectacles.
"Well, I'm dom'd," he exclaimed. "I'm dom'd, if I would na loike to see that chap i' Riggan! What's th' felly getten on?"
"He's dressed i' goat-skins. He wur cast upon a desert island, an' had na' owt else to wear."
"I thowt he must ha' been reduced i' circumstances, or he'd nivver ha turnt out i' that rig 'less he thowt more o' comfort than appearances. What wur he doin' a-casting hissen on a desert island? Wur he reet i' th' upper story?"
"He wur shipwrecked," triumphantly. "Th' sea drifted him to th' shore, an' he built hissen a hut, an' gettin' goats an' birds, an'—an' aw sorts—an'—it's the graideliest bock tha ivver seed. Miss Anice gave it me."
"Has she read it hersen?"
