"Wull, Miss," continued Tim, in no hurry whatever, "prasently us zees a girt beg chap on a zort of a brown cob, a coomin in our diraction"--Tim was proud of this word, and afraid that we should fail to appreciate it--"they was a coomin, as you might zay, in our diraction this beg chap, and anither chap langside on him. Wull, when ’um coom’d within spaking room of us, beg chap a’ horsebarck hollers out, ’Can ’e tell, my men, where Jan Uxtable live?’ Avore I had taime to spake, Maister lifts hissell up, and zaith, ’What doo ’e want to know for, my faine feller?’ every bit the zame as ai be a tullin of it to you. ’What’s the odds to thee,’ zays tother chap, ’thee d’st better kape a zivil tongue in thee head. I be Tom Gundry from Carnwall.’ And with that he stood up in his starrups, as beg a feller as iver you zee, Miss. Wull, Maister knowed all about Tom Gundry and what a was a coom for, and zo did I, and the boy, and arl the country round; for Maister have gotten a turble name for rarstling; maybe, Miss, you’ve a heer’d on him in Lunnon town?" "I have never been in London, Tim, since I was a child; and I know nothing at all about wrestling." "Wull, Miss, that be nayther here nor there. But there had been a dale of brag after Maister had thrown arl they Carnishers to Barnstable vair, last year, about vetching this here Tom Gundry, who wor the best man in Cornwall, to throw our Maister. Howsomever, it be time for ai to crack on a bit. ’Ah,’ zays the man avoot, who zimth had coom to back un, ’ah, ’twor arl mighty faine for Uxtable to play skittles with our zecond rate men. Chappell or Ellicombe cud have doed as much as that. Rackon Jan Uxtable wud vind a different game with Tom Gundry here.’ ’Rackon he wud,’ zaith Gundry, ’a had better jine a burial club, if her’ve got ere a waife and vamily.’" "Noo. Did a zay that though?" inquired Mrs. Huxtable, much excited.