Muddling work, I calls it,
messing over books. Do you care for that kind of stuff, Master
Quakespear?"
"I dabble in it when I am away from the country," was the reply.
Then the Warwickshire man began soliloquising again, somewhat after this
manner:
"'In his brain
He hath strange places crammed with observation,
The which he vents in mangled forms.'" [35]
[Footnote 35: _As you Like It_ vii.]
"Drat the fellow!" whispered Peregrine, turning to the parson, who
happened to be riding alongside "I don't like un, 'e's so unkit."
PARSON: "What makes him talk so, William?"
PEREGRINE (_touching his forehead_): "It's a case; I'll be bound it's a
case. 'E's unkit."
"Would you mind saying that again, sir," said the bard, producing a
notebook.
Peregrine goes into a fit of giggling, so Shakespeare writes down from
memory; whereupon the yeoman makes up to the squire, and says, "Hist,
squire, we must 'ave a care; 'e's takin' notes 'o anything we says. 'Tis
my belief 'e's got to do with that 'ere case of Tom Barton's they're
makin' such a fuss and do about at Coln.
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