The fat little landlady was ever bustling in and out, between the kitchen and the adjoining bar, pausing now and then to catch a word of fresh news upon the all-engrossing subject which they were discussing with so much zest. “Wot’s been done with un?” inquired Bob Sounds, the well-digger, of his next neighbor, Peter Barktree, who having come in from Horsford, might be expected to know something satisfactory. “Ay mon, wot’s been done with un?” echoed all the others. “_Oie_ dunnoa. How should _Oie_ know, only wot Bill Moines sayt? Bill Moines as works on the Yew-tree farrum at Horsford telled _Oie_ how zhe was zent off to the county jail. But _Oie_ dunnoa, how zhould _Oie_ knoa?” replied this specimen of either stupefaction or caution—it was hard to tell which. “Humph! how zhould Bill Moines knoa, an he did wurruk on the Horsford farrum?” queried a doubter. “_Oie_ dunnoa. He wur up to the great house and saw the carridges drive off mebbe; but I dunnoa; how zhould _Oie_ knoa?” “Bill Moines loied, and Peter Barktree nows nowt on it. John Howe, the constable, toolde me as his worship had sent un off with his ruverence Muster Oldfield to stay tull the triall,” said the baker from the head of the table; and having taken the pipe quite out of his mouth to deliver this judgment, he now to save time immediately replaced it and smoked the faster. “Wot time will the trial be!—Quardar Zezzions!” “Noo, mon, (puff,) it’s a piece of wurruk for his ludship, (puff, puff,) and wull coome before the Zizes, (puff, puff, puff,) and they will be open next week,” replied the competent baker and dictator, smoking vigorously between his oracular words. “And wot will they do with zhe!” “Saying it goo agin un, zend un to the tre’d’ll.”[2] Footnote 2: Treadmill. “Noo they wull not, nuther. It’s boogmy wot they zent Tom Sawyers acroos the water for. And they wull zend un to Bootany Bay coolonies,” said an artizan who had not before spoken. “Oy, but they wull ne’er do the loike of that to zhe, Tom.” “And whoy zhouldn’t they do it to zhe as well as to another, Bill Stiggins, if zhe _be_ hoigh quality? Boogmy’s boogmy the wurruld over; and wot’s boogmy fur poor folk is boogmy for quality folk, and noa summat else with a foiner name; and wot’s Boot’ny Bay for poor folk, zhould be Boot’ny Bay for quality folk, and noa soome foiner place loike Lunnun town,” persisted this determined radical. “Oy, oy, Tom! zo we zay. Wot’s law for the poor zhould be law for the quality. A health to Tom Stallins! Here, Mother Higgins, more ale! Wot’s Boot’ny Bay for poor Tom Sawyers, zhoold be Boot’ny Bay for—”