"Ay, so there be."
"Well?"
"Well, Peter?"
"They were talking about it at 'The Bull' last night--"
"'The Bull'--to be sure--you was at 'The Bull' last night--well?"
"They were saying that you were a mighty wrestler, George, that
you were the only man in these parts who could stand up to this
Cornishman."
"Ay, I can wrastle a bit, Peter," he replied, speaking in the
same heavy, listless manner; "what then?"
"Why then, George, get into your coat, and let's be off."
"Wheer to?"
"The Fair." Black George shook his head.
"What, you won't?"
"No, Peter."
"And why not?"
"Because I aren't got the mind to--because I aren't never goin'
to wrastle no more, Peter--so theer's an end on 't." Yet, in the
doorway I paused and looked back.
"George."
"Peter?"
"Won't you come--for friendship's sake?"
Black George picked up his coat, looked at it, and put it down
again.
"No, Peter!"