So they gav him th' keys,
and leet him have his own road. Well, o' Sunday forenoon, as soon as th'
first hymn wur gan out, Dick whisper't round to th' folk i'th
singin'-pew, 'Now for't! Mind yor hits! Aw 'm beawn to set it agate!'
An' then he went, an' wun th' organ up, an' it started a-playin'
'French;' an' th' singers followed, as weel as they could, in a slattery
sort of a way. But some on 'em didn't like it. They reckon't that they
made nought o' singin' to machinery. Well, when th' hymn wur done, th'
parson said, 'Let us pray,' an' down they went o' their knees. But just
as folk wur gettin' their e'en nicely shut, an' their faces weel hud i'
their hats, th' organ banged off again, wi' th' same tune. 'Hello!' said
Dick, jumpin' up, 'th' divle's oft again, bith mass!' Then he darted at
th' organ; an' he rooted about wi' th' keys, tryin' to stop it. But th'
owd lad wur i' sich a fluster, that istid o' stoppin' it, he swapped th'
barrel to another tune. That made him warse nor ever. Owd Thwittler
whisper'd to him, 'Thire, Dick; thae's shapt that nicely! Give it
another twirl, owd bird!' Well, Dick sweat, an' futter't about till he
swapped th' barrel again.
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