“Oh, my sirs!” he said. “Wheer’s my towel?”
It was hung on a chair to warm before the fire, otherwise he would have bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels before the hot baking-fire to dry himself.
“F-ff-f!” he went, pretending to shudder with cold.
“Goodness, man, don’t be such a kid!” said Mrs. Morel. “It’s NOT cold.”
“Thee strip thysen stark nak’d to wesh thy flesh i’that scullery,” said the miner, as he rubbed his hair;“nowt b’r a ice-’ouse!”
