“How be thee’s schoolmasterin’ getting along, Mr. Solent? My old man⁠—that be our Gerdie’s Dad, ma’am⁠—do always say them Grammar boys be above theyselves, what with one thing and t’other. He cotchit two on ’em, the last buryin’ ’ee had, stealing of they bones. Not that they were proper human-like bones⁠ ⁠… if ’ee understand⁠ ⁠… for ’ee do always bury them religious-deep. They were hosses’ bones, seems so, from what ’ee do calculate. But they were more impident, them Grammar boys, when ’ee were arter they, than if they’d been the bones of King Balaam.”

“What’s Lobbie been doing lately, Mother?” enquired Gerda, feeling vaguely conscious that the subject of bones, whether human or otherwise, was inappropriate at that moment.

“Lob, do ’ee say? Thee may well ask what Lob be doing, the young pert-mouthed limb! He be bringing his Dad’s hoar hairs down to bedlam, and mine wi ’em, that’s what the owl’s pellet be doing!”