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“So this is the little fellow who was picked up asleep in a cradle during the flood of August, 1799,” observed rather than inquired one of the gentlemen, who appeared as spokesman.

“Yoi, yo’r honours,” answered Simon, making a sort of bow.

“Who can bear witness to that?”

“Aw con”—“An’ aw con,” responded Simon and Matt Cooper in a breath. “It wur uz as got him eawt o’ th’ wayter.”

“Anyone else?”

Bessy stepped forward modestly.

“He wur put i’ moi arms on Tanners’ Bridge, an’ aw’ve browt him oop iver sin’.”

“Have you never sought for his parents?”

“Ay, mony a time. Matt an’ me have spent mony a day i’ seekin’ ’em,” said Simon promptly, “an’ we could fand no moore than that papper tells”—referring to a sheet in the questioning feoffee’s hand.

“Then how do you date the boy’s age with such precision?”

The nurse now sidled confidently to the front.

“If it please your honour’s worship, aw wur called to stiff-backed Nan’s dowter in the last pinch, when hoo wur loike to die, an’ that little chap wur born afore aw left, an’ that wur o’ th’ fifth o’ May, seventeen hunderd an’ noinety-noine. Aw know it, fur aw broke mi arm th’ varry next day.”