"Beat en blue las' night, an' turned en to doors—the dirty trollop."
"Eli, don't 'ee" put in the poor man, in a low, deprecating voice.
"Iss, an' no need to tell what for," exclaimed a red-faced woman who stood by the drover, with two baskets of poultry at her feet, "She's a low lot; a low trapesin' baggage. If These-an'-That, there, wasn' but a poor, ha'f-baked shammick, he'd ha' killed that wife o' his afore this."
"Naybours, I'd as lief you didn't mention it," appealed These-an'-That, huskily.
"I'm afeard you'm o' no account, These-an'-That: but sam-sodden, if I may say so," the drover observed.
"Put in wi' the bread, an' took out wi' the cakes," suggested Eli.
"Wife!—a pretty loitch, she an' the whole kit, up there!" went on the market-woman. "If you durstn't lay finger 'pon your wedded wife, These-an'-That, but let her an' that long-legged gamekeeper turn'ee to doors, you must be no better 'n a worm,—that's all I say."
