"Yon lad gets war und war!" observed he on re-entering. "He's left th' gate at t' full swing, and Miss's pony has trodden dahn two rigs o' corn, and plottered through, raight o'er into t' meadow! Hahsomdiver, t' maister "ull play t' devil to-morn, and he'll do weel. He's patience itsseln wi' sich careless, offald craters-patience itsseln he is! Bud he'll not be soa allus-yah's see, all on ye! Yah mun'n't drive him out of his heead for nowt!"
"Have you found Heathcliff, you ass?" interrupted Catherine. "Have you been looking for him, as I ordered?"

'Yon lad gets worse and worse!' he said. 'He's left t' gate swinging, and Miss's pony has trodden down t' corn. The master'll play t' devil tomorrow!'
'Have you found Heathcliff?' demanded Catherine. 'Have you been looking for him?'
