Never again will the long lazy evenings return wherein Ortheris,
whistling softly, moved surgeon-wise among the captives of his craft
at the bottom of the well; when Learoyd sat in the niche, giving sage
counsel on the management of 'tykes,' and Mulvaney, from the crook of
the overhanging _pipal_, waved his enormous boots in benediction above
our heads, delighting us with tales of Love and War, and strange
experiences of cities and men.
Ortheris--landed at last in the 'little stuff bird-shop' for which
your soul longed; Learoyd--back again in the smoky, stone-ribbed North,
amid the clang of the Bradford looms; Mulvaney--grizzled, tender, and
very wise Ulysses, sweltering on the earthwork of a Central India
line--judge if I have forgotten old days in the Trap!
Orth'ris, as allus thinks he knaws more than other foaks, said she
wasn't a real laady, but nobbut a Hewrasian. I don't gainsay as her
culler was a bit doosky like. But she _was_ a laady. Why, she rode iv
a carriage, an' good 'osses, too, an' her 'air was that oiled as you
could see your faice in it, an' she wore dimond rings an' a goold
chain, an' silk an' satin dresses as mun 'a' cost a deal, for it isn't
a cheap shop as keeps enough o' one pattern to fit a figure like hers.
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