‘Now why,’ asked Tom Shellett, with that air of profound sagacity which a few hours steady drinking will induce even in the least philosophical of us, ‘now why do ee say that, Mus Mykelborne? What matter do time o’ day make? A pot o’ beer be a pot o’ beer, and good drinken, whether tis breakfast or supper or no time at all. Likewise a plate o’ beef be a plate o’ beef, or I’m much bewildered.’
‘Tis this way, Tahm,’ began Mykelborne——
‘A fairer plan yet,’ said Coachy Timms, ‘a fairer plan yet ud be to give Lubin the driven of un. Ay, set my Lubin in the driver’s seat, with reins holden and whip to hand, and liddle Lard Lollop in the shafts. Ah, he were a gennelman, were Lubin. It’s him desarved a dilly-down bed if anyone did. And pretty a’d have looked,’ added Coachy, peering into the bottom of his mug, ‘pretty a’d have looked lyen under a silk healing.’
‘Ah,’ put in Mr Bailey, ‘there was a gentleman in London, a writing gentleman, that had just such another fancy as that. By and by I shall recall his name for you. Horses are human cattle and fit to teach men their manners. That was his idea.’
‘And that’s the Lard’s gospel,’ said Coachy. ‘Now Gipsy, my lad, where’s that song o’ yourn?’
‘I have it!’ cried Mr Bailey, excited and complacent. ‘Swift was his name. Swift.’
‘That it worn’t,’ said Coachy indignantly. ‘Naun of the kind. Swift by nature, if you like, my coney; but Lubin was his name, as I’ve telled ee, and who should know better?’
‘The way of it be this, Tahm Shellett,’ said Mykelborne, with owlish stare and inebriate unction, ‘there be a time for everything, likewise a due season, as the Book tells. There be a time for getten up of a marnen, and a time for gwain to bed. There be a time for laughen and a time for weepen. There be a time for swillen and swearen and suchlike lewdness, and a time for sitten quiet and godly by your own fireside. There be a time to be born and a time to be bedded. Mark that, Tahm Shellett. Mark that, Coachy Timms. And do you mark that too, Mus Bailey. Time and time and a dividen of time: twas Postle Paul said that, Tahm Shellett, and you wouldn’t set yourself up to know better than Postle Paul, a common sinful cowherd as we all know you to be. If Postle Paul says keep your breeches on, on you maun keep ’em, and drink a liddle wine for your stomach-ache same as Timothy, and that’s a holy text. But if Postle Paul says take ’em off, Tahm Shellett, if Postle Paul says take off they breeches and gird up thy loins with the shield of righteousness and the breastplate of fortication, then off you may take ’em, Tahm Shellett, and goo to ut like a man, and be damned to ee. And I should like to meet the man,’ said Mykelborne, rising from his seat in indignation and resuming it with some abruptness, ‘I should like to meet the man as would give me the lie to that, which is good gospel and naun better. Be he great or be he small, be he rich or be he poor, be he sickness and health till death us do part, I should like to meet un.’
‘A good knowledgeable piece of talk!’ said Coachy Timms, with surprising benevolence. ‘You’ve a bly of your father about you, Dick Mykelborne. As to time, here be another puzzle that do tarrify me. What
‘Ah,’ murmured Mykelborne, giving compliment for compliment, ‘now there be a clever dubersome question for you, Tahm Shellett.’
‘Ah,’ said Tom Shellett, stroking his stringy neck.
‘Touching that matter,’ said Mr Bailey, ‘I remember that when I was a younger man I wrote a copy of verses about Time. If you’ll bear with me——’
Enjoying his triumph, Coachy Timms glowed upon the company and repeated his mot: ‘What
‘That’s a tarrible true word,’ said Mykelborne, slowly nodding his head.
‘You can’t eat un,’ continued Coachy. ‘You can’t drink un. You can’t get un wi’ child. What do us folks want with un? Now a harse, there’s sense in a harse. You can ride a harse, and drive a harse, and call cousins with un. But time, tis nuther here nor there, tis nuther my ankle nor my elbow. It daun’t keep a man warm of nights. It daun’t feed him or clothe him. It do naught but turn his beard white and make his teeth fall out and sharten his wind and send him all doddlish into the dark ditch to make an end of all. He’s no manner of good to poor folks, this Time. Tis all a boffle and a blunder and we were best rid of him, neighbours.’
‘Tarrible true,’ repeated Mykelborne. ‘And why daun’t Government do something, the pack of fine rascals?’