Tinker.  You!  How came you to think of such a thing?

Myself.  Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do.  I want a home and work.  As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my trade to learn to tinker; what better can I do?  Would you have me go to Chester and work there now?  I don’t like the thoughts of it.  If I go to Chester and work there, I can’t be my own man; I must work under a master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, and when I quarrel I am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks are sometimes sent to prison; I don’t like the thought either of going to Chester or to Chester prison.  What do you think I could earn at Chester?

Tinker.  A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would employ you, which I don’t think they would with those hands of yours.  But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrelsome nature you must not go to Chester; you would be in the castle in no time.  I don’t know how to advise you.  As for selling you my stock, I’d see you farther first, for your own sake.

Myself.  Why?

Tinker.  Why! you would get your head knocked off.  Suppose you were to meet him?

Myself.  Pooh, don’t be afraid on my account; if I were to meet him I could easily manage him one way or other.  I know all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out.

Here the tinker’s wife, who for some minutes past had been listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low soft tone:  ’I really don’t see, John, why you shouldn’t sell the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people couldn’t lay the blame on you; but I don’t think any ill will befall him, and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need?’

‘I’ll hear of no such thing,’ said the tinker; ’I have drunk at the young man’s expense, and though he says he’s quarrelsome, I would not wish to sit in pleasanter company.  A pretty fellow I should be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will.  If he once sets up on my beat, he’s a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his head knocked off his shoulders.  There, you are crying, but you shan’t have your will though; I won’t be the young man’s destruction . . .  If, indeed, I thought he could manage the tinker—­but he never can; he says he can hit, but it’s no use hitting the tinker,—­crying still! you are enough to drive one mad.  I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two, just now you were talking of knowing hard words and names—­I don’t wish to send you to your mischief—­you say you know hard words and names; let us see.  Only on one condition I’ll sell you the pony and things; as for the beat it’s gone, isn’t mine—­sworn away by my own mouth.  Tell me what’s my name; if you can’t, may I—­’