R. D. Blackmore,
Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
“ But I, being muddled with much doubt about John Fry and his errand, was only stripped of my jerkin and waistcoat, and not comfortable to begin. “Come now, shake hands,” cried a big boy, jumping in joy of the spectacle, a third-former nearly six feet high; “shake hands, you little devils. Keep your pluck up, and show good sport, and Lord love the better man of you.” Robin took me by the hand, and gazed at me disdainfully, and then smote me painfully in the face, ere I could get my fence up. “Whutt be 'bout, lad?” cried John Fry; “hutt un again, Jan, wull 'e? Well done then, our Jan boy.” ”
