“Coals!” ejaculated Speed-the-Plough sonorously.

“Coals!” echoed the tinker.  “You ask what I goes there for, mayhap?  Never you mind.  One sees a mort o’ life in my trade.  Not for coals it isn’t.  And I don’t carry ’em there, neither.  Anyhow, I comes back.  London’s my mark.  Says I, I’ll see a bit o’ the sea, and steps aboard a collier.  We were as nigh wrecked as the prophet Paul.”

“—­A—­who’s him?” the other wished to know.

“Read your Bible,” said the tinker.  “We pitched and tossed—­’tain’t that game at sea ’tis on land, I can tell ye!  I thinks, down we’re a-going—­ say your prayers, Bob Tiles!  That was a night, to be sure!  But God’s above the devil, and here I am, ye see.”  Speed-the-Plough lurched round on his elbow and regarded him indifferently.  “D’ye call that doctrin’?  He bean’t al’ays, or I shoo’n’t be scrapin’ my heels wi’ nothin’ to do, and, what’s warse, nothin’ to eat.  Why, look heer.  Luck’s luck, and bad luck’s the con-trary.  Varmer Bollop, t’other day, has’s rick burnt down.  Next night his gran’ry’s burnt.  What do he tak’ and go and do?  He takes and goes and hangs unsel’, and turns us out of his employ.  God warn’t above the devil then, I thinks, or I can’t make out the reckonin’.”

The tinker cleared his throat, and said it was a bad case.

“And a darn’d bad case.  I’ll tak’ my oath on’t!” cried Speed-the-Plough.  “Well, look heer!  Heer’s another darn’d bad case.  I threshed for Varmer Blaize Blaize o’ Beltharpe afore I goes to Varmer Bollop.  Varmer Blaize misses pilkins.  He swears our chaps steals pilkins.  ’Twarn’t me steals ‘em.  What do he tak’ and go and do?  He takes and tarns us off, me and another, neck and crop, to scuffle about and starve, for all he keers.  God warn’t above the devil then, I thinks.  Not nohow, as I can see!”

The tinker shook his head, and said that was a bad case also.

“And you can’t mend it,” added Speed-the-Plough.  “It’s bad, and there it be.  But I’ll tell ye what, master.  Bad wants payin’ for.”  He nodded and winked mysteriously.  “Bad has its wages as well’s honest work, I’m thinkin’.  Varmer Bollop I don’t owe no grudge to:  Varmer Blaize I do.  And I shud like to stick a Lucifer in his rick some dry windy night.”  Speed-the-Plough screwed up an eye villainously.  “He wants hittin’ in the wind,—­jest where the pocket is, master, do Varmer Blaize, and he’ll cry out ‘O Lor’!’ Varmer Blaize will.  You won’t get the better o’ Varmer Blaize by no means, as I makes out, if ye doan’t hit into him jest there.”

The tinker sent a rapid succession of white clouds from his mouth, and said that would be taking the devil’s side of a bad case.  Speed-the-Plough observed energetically that, if Farmer Blaize was on the other, he should be on that side.