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When I gat theear, an’ as’t if t’ jolly jist was sturrin’, they yan snùrtit an’ anudder gurn’t, till I gat rayder maddish; but at last yan o’ them skipjacks o’ fellows ’at ye see weearin’ a lāl jacket like a lass’s bedgoon, sed he wad see. He com back laughin’, an’ said, “Cūm this way, Joe.” Well, I follow’t him till he stopp’t at a room dooar, an’ he gev a lal knock, an’ than oppen’t it, an’ says, “Joe, sur,” says he. I wasn’t gā’n to stand that, ye know, an’ says I, “Joe, sur,” says I, “he’ll ken it’s Joe, sur,” says I, “as seùn as he sees t’ feàce o’ me;” says I, “an’ if thoo doesn’t git oot o’ that wid thy ‘Joe, sur,’” says I, “I’ll fetch the’ a clink under t’ lug ’at ’ll mak’ the’ laugh at t’ wrang side o’ that ugly mug o’ thine, thoo gūrnin yap, thoo!” Wid that he skipt oot o’t’ way gaily sharp, an’ I stept whietly into t’ room. Theear he was, sittin at a teàble writin—t’ grey hair, t’ specks, t’ lang nwose, t’ white hankecher, an’ t’ black cleàs, o’ just as if he’d niver owder doff’t his-sel’ or donn’t his-sel’ sen he went away. But afooar I cūd put oot my hand or say a civil wūrd tull him, he glentit up at mé throo his specks, iv his oan oald sideways fashion—but varra feùrce-like—an’ grūntit oot sum’at aboot wūnderin’ hoo I dār’t to shew my feàce theear. Well! this pot t’ cap on t’ top of o’. I’d chow’t ower what fadder said, an’ hoo he’d said it i’ my rwoad doon, till I fūnd me-sel’ gittin rayder mad aboot that. T’ way ’at they snurtit an’ laugh’t when I com to Skeàl-hill meàd me madder; an’ t’ bedgoon cwoatit fellow wid his “Joe, sur,” meàd me madder nor iver; but t’ oald jolly jist, ’at I thowte wad be sa fain to see mé agean, if t’ hed no’but been for t’ seàk of oor sprogue on t’ fells togidder—wùnderin’ ’at I dar’t show my feàce theear, fairly dreàv me rantin’ mad, an’ I düd mak a brūst.