An' then he looked round th' singin'-pew, as
helpless as a kittlin'; an' he said to th' singers, 'Whatever mun aw do,
folk?' an' tears coom into his e'en. 'Roll it o'er,' said Thwittler.
'Come here, then,' said Dick. So they roll't it o'er, as if they wanted
to teem th' music out on it, like ale oat of a pitcher. But the organ
yowlt on; and Dick went wur an' wur. 'Come here, yo singers,' said Dick,
'come here; let's sit us down on't! Here, Sarah; come, thee; thou'rt a
fat un!' An' they sit 'em down on it; but o' wur no use. Th' organ wur
reet ony end up; an' they couldn't smoor th' sound. At last Dick gav in;
an' he leant o'er th' front o' th' singin'-pew, wi' th' sweat runnin'
down his face; an' he sheawted across to th' parson, 'Aw cannot stop it!
I wish yo'd send somebry up.' Just then owd Pudge, th' bang-beggar, coom
runnin' into th' pew, an' he fot Dick a sous at back o' th' yed wi' his
pow, an' he said, 'Come here, Dick; thou'rt a foo. Tak howd; an' let's
carry it eawt.' Dick whisked round an' rubbed his yed, an' he said, 'Aw
say, Pudge, keep that pow to thisel', or else I'll send my shoon against
thoose ribbed stockin's o' thine.' But he went an' geet howd, an' him
an' Pudge carried it into th' chapel-yard, to play itsel' out i'th open
air. An' it yowlt o' th' way as they went, like a naughty lad bein'
turn't out of a reawm for cryin'. Th' parson waited till it wur gone;
an' then he went on wi' th' sarvice. When they set th' organ down i'th
chapel yard, owd Pudge wiped his for-yed, an' he said, 'By th' mass,
Dick, thae'll get th' bag for this job.' 'Whau, what for,' said Dick.
'Aw 've no skill of sich like squallin' boxes as this. If they'd taen my
advice, an' stick't to th' bass fiddle, aw could ha stopt that ony
minute. It has made me puff, carryin' that thing. I never once thought
that it 'd start again at after th' hymn wur done. Eh, I wur some mad!
If aw'd had a shool-full o' smo' coals i' my hond, aw'd hachuck't 'em
into't.... Yer, tho', how it's grindin' away just th' same as nought
wur. Aye, thae may weel play th' Owd Hundred, divvleskin. Thae's made a
funeral o' me this mornin'.... But, aw say, Pudge; th' next time at
there's aught o' this sort agate again, aw wish thae'd be as good as
keep that pow o' thine to thysel', wilto? Thae's raise't a nob at th'
back o' my yed th' size of a duck-egg; an' it'll be twice as big by
mornin'. How would yo like me to slap tho o' th' chops wi' a
stockin'-full o' slutch,