He suited his action to the words, placing a platter of ham and eggs in the centre of a small table and surrounding it with hot roast potatoes, a pot of tea, new biscuit, and a plate of honey.

“Ho!  Wit an’ Happiness, attend upon us here,” said he, making ready to sit down.

Then, as if he had forgotten something, he hurried to the door and opened it.

“Care, thou skeleton, go hence, and thou, Poverty, go also, and see thou return not before cock-crow,” said he, imperatively.

“You have many servants,” said Trove.

“An’ how may one have a castle without servants?  Forsooth, boy, horses an’ hounds, an’ lords an’ ladies have to be attended to.  But the retinoo is that run down ye’d think me home a hospital.  Wit is a creeping dotard, and Happiness he is in poor health an’ can barely drag himself to me table, an’ Hope is a tippler, an’ Right Hand is getting the palsy.  Alack! me best servant left me a long time ago.”

“And who was he?”

“Youth! lovely, beautiful Youth! but let us be happy.  I would not have him back—­foolish, inconstant Youth! dreaming dreams an’ seeing visions.  God love ye, boy! what is thy dream?”

This rallying style of talk, in which the clock tinker indulged so freely, afforded his young friend no little amusement.  His tongue had long obeyed the lilt of classic diction; his thought came easy in Elizabethan phrase.  The slight Celtic brogue served to enhance the piquancy of his talk.  Moreover he was really a man of wit and imagination.

“Once,” said the boy, after a little hesitation, “I thought I should try to be a statesman, but now I am sure I would rather write books.”

“An’ what kind o’ books, pray?”

“Tales.”

“An’ thy merchandise be truth, capital!” exclaimed the tinker.  “Hast thou an ear for tales?”

“I’m very fond of them.”

“Marry, I’ll tell thee a true tale, not for thy ear only but for thy soul, an’ some day, boy, ’twill give thee occupation for thy wits.”

“I’d love to hear it,” said the boy.

The pendulums were ever swinging like the legs of a procession trooping through the loft, some with quick steps, some with slow.  Now came a sound as of drums beating.  It was for the hour of eight, and when it stopped the tinker began.

“Once upon a time,” said he, as they rose from the table and the old man went for his pipe, “‘twas long ago, an’ I had then the rose o’ youth upon me, a man was tempted o’ the devil an’ stole money—­a large sum—­an’ made off with it.  These hands o’ mine used to serve him those days, an’ I remember he was a man comely an’ well set up, an’, I think, he had honour an’ a good heart in him.”

The old man paused.

“I should not think it possible,” said Trove, who was at the age of certainty in his opinions and had long been trained to the uncompromising thought of the Puritan.  “A man who steals can have no honour in him.”