"'E grins," sez Poole, "at ev'rything they say.
Dad Flood 'as nearly 'ad a fit to-day.
'E's cursed, an' ordered 'im clean off the place;
But this cove's face
Jist goes on grinnin', an' 'e sez, quite carm,
'E's come to do a bit around the farm."
The tale don't sound too good to me at all.
"If 'e's a crook," I sez, "'e wants a fall.
Maybe 'e's dilly. I'll go down an' see.
'E'll grin at me
When I 'ave done, if 'e needs dealin' with."
So I goes down to interview this Smith.
'E 'ad a fork out in the tater patch.
Sez 'e, "Why 'ello, Digger. Got a match?"
"Digger?" I sez. "Well, you ain't digger 'ere.
You better clear.
You ought to know that you can't dig them spuds.
They don't belong to you ; they're ole Dad Flood's."
"Can't I?" 'e grins. "I'll do the best I can,
Considerin' I'm only 'arf a man.
Give us a light. I can't get none from Flood,
An' mine is dud."
I parts; an' 'e stands grinnin' at me still;
An' then 'e sez, "'Ave yeh fergot me, Bill?"
