“What a vool I be, to be sure!” said George, his simple countenance lighted up with a broader smile than before. “I knows a book, sartinly, Master Lake, I knows a book. There’s one,” George continued, speaking even slower than before,—“there’s one inzide, sir,—a big un. On the shelf it be. A Vamly Bible they calls un. And I’m sartin sure it be there,” he concluded, “for a hasn’t been moved since the last time you christened, Master Lake.” The miller turned away, biting his lip hard, to repress a useless outburst of rage, and George, still smiling sweetly, spun the broom dexterously between his hands, as a man spins the water out of a stable mop. Just before Master Lake had got beyond earshot, George lowered the broom, and began to scratch his head once more. “I be a proper vool, sartinly,” said he; and when the miller heard this, he turned back. “Mother allus said I’d no more sense in my yead than a dumbledore,” George candidly confessed. And by a dumbledore he meant a humble-bee. “It do take me such a time to mind any thing, sir.” “Well, never mind, Gearge,” said the miller; “if thee’s slow, thee’s sure. What do ’ee remember about the book, now, Gearge? A don’t mind giving thee five shilling, if thee finds un, Gearge.” “A had un down at the burying, I ’member quite well now, sir. To put the little un’s name in ’twas. I thowt a hadn’t been down zince christening, I be so stoopid sartinly.” “What are you talking about, ye vool?” roared the miller. “The book, sir, sartinly,” said George, his honest face beaming with good-humor. “The Vamly Bible, Master Lake.” And as the windmiller went off muttering something which the Family Bible would by no means have sanctioned, George returned chuckling to a leisurely use of his broom on the round-house floor. Master Lake did not find the pocket-book, and after a day or two it was advertised in a local paper, and a reward of five pounds offered for it. George Sannel was seated one evening in the “Heart of Oak” inn, sipping some excellent home-brewed ale, which had been warmed up for his consumption in a curious funnel-shaped pipkin, when his long lop-ears caught a remark made by the inn-keeper, who was reading out bits from the local paper to a small audience, unable to read it for themselves. “Five pound reward!” he read. “Lor massy! There be a sum to be easily earned by a sharp-eyed chap with good luck on ’s side.” “And how then, Master Chuter?” said George, pausing, with the steaming mug half-way to his lips. “Haw, haw!” roared the inn-keeper: “you be a sharp-eyed chap, too! Do ’ee think ’twould suit thee, Gearge? Thee’s a sprack chap, sartinly, Gearge!” “Haw, haw, haw!” roared the other members of the company, as they slowly realized Master Chuter’s irony at the expense of the “voolish” Gearge.