What 's your say ? ' ` I 'm like you . I say nothin ' . But I 'll tell you a tale , an ' you can fit it as how you please . ' ` Passel o ' no-sense stuff , ' growled Hobden , but he filled his pipe . ` The Marsh men they call it Dymchurch Flit , ' Tom went on slowly . ` Hap you have heard it ? ' ` My woman she 've told it me scores o ' times . Dunno as I did n't end by belieftin ' it -- sometimes . ' Hobden crossed over as he spoke , and sucked with his pipe at the yellow lanthorn flame . Tom rested one great elbow on one great knee , where he sat among the coal . ` Have you ever bin in the Marsh ? ' he said to Dan . ` Only as far as Rye , once , ' Dan answered . ` Ah , that 's but the edge . Back behind of her there 's steeples settin ' beside churches , an ' wise women settin ' beside their doors , an ' the sea settin ' above the land , an ' ducks herdin ' wild in the diks ' -LRB- he meant ditches -RRB- . ` The Marsh is justabout riddled with diks an ' sluices , an ' tide-gates an ' water-lets . You can hear 'em bubblin ' an ' grummelin ' when the tide works in 'em , an ' then you hear the sea rangin ' left and right-handed all up along the Wall . You 've seen how flat she is -- the Marsh ? You 'd think nothin ' easier than to walk eend-on acrost her ?
Ah , but the diks an ' the XXXXX , they twists the roads about as ravelly as witch-yarn on the spindles .
Dan Hap Hobden Wall belieftin diks herdin lanthorn left water-lets