“Dang’ee—lemme be!” he gasped. “Du ’ee think as oi caan’t cloimb a little bit of a stoile as I’ve clumb, man an’ bye, for seventy year? Lemme be—an’ dang’ee twoice!” Gasping these words and with infinite exertions the old man mounted the stile, seated himself on the top bar in Sir John’s place and, mopping wrinkled brow with the end of a newly washed and ironed neckerchief of vivid hue, nodded at Sir John in very fierce and determined fashion. “Look’ee naow,” he panted. “I’ve set ’ere on this yer stoile fur six-and-sixty year—ah, p’r’aps longer—every sunny arternoon, off an’ on, and ’ere I be a-goin’ to set ’cording to custom, so oi be—an’ dang you an’ arl! An’ what do ’ee say naow?” “That you are very welcome,” smiled Sir John. “I hope you live to sit there for many a long day; you look hale and hearty——” “Wot—me?” croaked the old man fiercely. “Me ’ale an’ ’earty! Lordy-lord, young man, ’ee must be a gert fule not t’see as oi du be waastin’ away an’ perishin’ wi’ a disease no doctor nor ’poth’cary can cure. There be ’poth’cary Mayfield, over tu Lewes, sez tu me: ‘’Osea Dumbrell,’ ’e sez, ‘if I wuz tu give ’ee arl th’ drugs in my shop they wouldn’t do ’ee no manner o’ good!’ ’e sez. An’ no wonder, for my disease bean’t no ordinary disease—no! My disease, young man, be a musket-ball in my in’ards as won’t come out no-’ow!” “A musket-ball!” exclaimed Sir John, staring. “Ah—in me in’ards!” nodded the old man triumphantly; “as won’t come out! An’ ’twixt you an’ me, a preventive bullet it were. Ketched me ’ere ’twixt wind an’ watter, it did! Six-an’-fifty years ago come Martinmas, an’ brings up agin me backbone wi’ a crack as nigh deafened me; ah, it be gert wonder as it didn’t kill oi stone-dead!” “Indeed, yes!” murmured Sir John. “An’ theer it du bide ever since, young man. I can feel it! Whens’ever oi walks tu fast or coughs a spell, that theer old musket-ball goes a-rollin’ an’ a-rattlin’ about in me pore old in’ards summat crool, lordy-lord! Las’ toime I seed Doctor Blake, t’ surgeon, about ’un, ’e shook ’is ’ead solemn-loike: ‘You’m a-goin’ t’ die, ’Osea Dumbrell,’ ’e sez. ‘Aye,’ I sez, ‘so be you, doctor, but as fur oi—when?’ ‘When ye du,’ ’e sez, ‘’twill be mortal sudden!’ ’e sez. That wur years an’ years ago, an’ ’ere be I alive an’ kickin’.... Doan’t seem right some’ow, fur doctor be mortal knowin’. But I doan’t look much loike dyin’, du I? “No, indeed!” answered Sir John. “And you are surely the neatest, smartest——”