Book Two The Woman - Chapter 36 Which Sympathizes with a Brass Jack, A Brace of Cutlasses, and Divers Pots and Pans

I found the Ancient sunning himself in the porch before the inn,
as he waited for his breakfast.

"Peter," said he, "I be tur'ble cold sometimes. It comes
a-creepin' on me all at once, even if I be sittin' before a roarin'
fire or a-baskin' in this good, warm sun--a cold as reaches down
into my poor old 'eart--grave-chills, I calls 'em, Peter--ah!
grave-chills. Ketches me by the 'eart they do; ye see I be that
old, Peter, that old an' wore out."

"But you're a wonderful man for your age!" said I, clasping the
shrivelled hand in mine, "and very lusty and strong--"

"So strong as a bull I be, Peter!" he nodded readily, "but then,
even a bull gets old an' wore out, an' these grave-chills ketches
me oftener an' oftener. 'Tis like as if the Angel o' Death
reached out an' touched me--just touched me wi' 'is finger,
soft-like, as much as to say: ''Ere be a poor, old, wore-out
creeter as I shall be wantin' soon.' Well, I be ready; 'tis
only the young or the fule as fears to die. Threescore years
an' ten, says the Bible, an' I be years an' years older than
that. Oh! I shan't be afeared to answer when I'm called, Peter.
''Ere I be, Lord!' I'll say. ''Ere I be, thy poor old servant'
--but oh, Peter! if I could be sure o' that theer old rusty
stapil bein' took first, why then I'd go j'yful--j'yful, but--
why theer be that old fule Amos--Lord! what a dodderin' old
fule 'e be, an' theer be Job, an' Dutton--they be comin' to
plague me, Peter, I can feel it in my bones. Jest reach me
my snuff-box out o' my 'ind pocket, an' you shall see me smite
they Amalekites 'ip an' thigh."