Ripton solaced his wretchedness by watching them through the briar hedge.  He saw the tinker stroking a white cat, and appealing to her, every now and then, as his missus, for an opinion or a confirmation; and he thought that a curious sight.  Speed-the-Plough was stretched at full length, with his boots in the rain, and his head amidst the tinker’s pots, smoking, profoundly contemplative.  The minutes seemed to be taken up alternately by the grey puffs from their mouths.

It was the tinker who renewed the colloquy.  Said he, “Times is bad!”

His companion assented, “Sure-ly!”

“But it somehow comes round right,” resumed the tinker.  “Why, look here. 
Where’s the good o’ moping?  I sees it all come round right and tight.  Now
I travels about.  I’ve got my beat.  ’Casion calls me t’other day to
Newcastle!—­Eh?”

“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.