One on 'em
whisper't to Thwittler, an' axed him if his fiddle had getten th'
bally-warche. But Thwittler never spoke a word. His senses wur leavin'
him very fast. At last, he geet so freeten't, that he chuck't th' fiddle
down, an' darted out o'th chapel, beawt hat; an' off he ran whoam, in a
cowd sweet, wi' his yure stickin' up like a cushion-full o'
stockin'-needles. An' he bowted straight through th' heawse, an' reel
up-stairs to bed, wi' his clooas on, beawt sayin' a word to chick or
chighlt. His wife watched him run through th' heawse; but he darted
forrud, an' took no notice o' nobody. 'What's up now,' thought Betty;
an' hoo ran after him. When hoo geet up-stairs th' owd lad had retten
croppen into bed; an' he wur ill'd up, e'er th' yed. So Betty turned th'
quilt deawn, an' hoo said. 'Whatever's to do witho, James?' 'Howd te
noise!' said Thwittler, pooin' th' clooas o'er his yed again, 'howd te
noise! I'll play no moor at yon shop!' an' th' bed fair wackert again;
he 're i' sich a fluster. 'Mun I make tho a saup o' gruel?' said Betty.
'Gruel be ----!' said Thwittler, poppin' his yed out o' th' blankets.
'Didto ever yer ov onybody layin' the devil wi' meighl-porritch?' An'
then he poo'd th' blanket o'er his yed again.
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