He was getting very cold indeed when he came upon a fragment of burial-ground in which an unhappy sheep was grazing. Unhappy, because a hideous small boy was stoning it through the railings, and had already lamed it in one leg, and was much excited by the benevolent sportsmanlike purpose of breaking its other three legs, and bringing it down.
“ ’It ’im agin!” cried the boy, as the poor creature leaped; “and made a dint in his wool.”
“Let him be!” said Mr. Datchery. “Don’t you see you have lamed him?”
“Yer lie,” returned the sportsman. “ ’E went and lamed isself. I see ’im do it, and I giv’ ’im a shy as a Widdy-warning to ’im not to go a-bruisin’ ’is master’s mutton any more.”
“Come here.”
“I won’t; I’ll come when yer can ketch me.”
“Stay there then, and show me which is Mr. Tope’s.”
“Ow can I stay here and show you which is Topeseses, when Topeseses is t’other side the Kinfreederal, and over the crossings, and round ever so many comers? Stoo-pid! Ya‑a‑ah!”
“Show me where it is, and I’ll give you something.”
“Come on, then.”
This brisk dialogue concluded, the boy led the way, and by-and-by stopped at some distance from an arched passage, pointing.
“Lookie yonder. You see that there winder and door?”
“That’s Tope’s?”