“Do you think so?”

“I knows so; ain’t I a-’earin’ an’ a-seein’ such all day, an’ every day—­theer’s Black Jarge, for one.”

“What about him?”

“What about ’im!” repeated the Pedler; “w’y, ain’t ’is life been ruined, broke, wore away by one o’ them Eves?—­very well then!”

“What do you mean—­how has his life been ruined?”

“Oh! the usual way of it; Jarge loves a gell—­gell loves Jarge —­sugar ain’t sweeter—­very well then!  Along comes another cove —­a strange cove—­a cove wi’ nice white ‘ands an’ soft, takin’ ways—­’e talks wi’ ‘er walks wi’ ’er—­smiles at ‘er—­an’ pore Jarge ain’t nowheeres—­pore Jarge’s cake is dough—­ah! an’ doughy dough at that!”

“How do you come to know all this?”

“’Ow should I come to know it but from the man ’isself?  ‘Dick,’ says ’e” (baptismal name Richard, but Dick for short), “‘Dick,’ says ’e, ’d’ye see this ‘ere stick?’ an’ ’e shows me a good, stout cudgel cut out o’ th’ ‘edge, an’ very neatly trimmed it were too.  ‘Ah!  I sees it, Jarge,’ says I.  ‘An’ d’ye see this un?’ says ’e, ‘oldin’ up another as like the first as one pea to its fellow.  ‘Ah!  I sees that un too, Jarge,’ says I.  ‘Well,’ says Jarge, ’one’s for ‘im an’ one’s for me—­’e can take ’is chice,’ ’e says, ‘an’ when we do meet, it’s a-goin’ to be one or t’ other of us,’ ‘e says, an’ wot’s more—­’e looked it!  ’If I ‘ave to wait, an’ wait, an’ foller ‘im, an’ foller ‘im,’ says Jarge, ’I’ll catch ‘im alone, one o’ these fine nights, an’ it’ll be man to man.’”

“And when did he tell you all this?”

“‘S marnin’ as ever was.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Oh, no!” said the Pedler, shaking his head, “not by no manner o’ means.  I’m married, but I ain’t that kind of a cove!”

“What do you mean?”

“The runners is arter ‘im—­lookin’ for ’im ‘igh an’ low, an’ —­though married, I ain’t one to give a man away.  I ain’t a friendly cove myself, never was, an’ never shall be—­never ’ad a friend all my days, an’ don’t want one but I likes Black Jarge—­I pities, an’ I despises ’im.”

“Why do you despise him?”

Because ’e carries on so, all about a Eve—­w’y, theer ain’t a woman breathin’ as is worth a man’s troublin’ ’is lead over, no, nor never will be—­yet ‘ere’s Black Jarge ready—­ah! an’ more than willin’ to get ’isself ‘ung, an’ all for a wench—­a Eve—­”

“Get, himself hanged?” I repeated.

“Ah ’ung! w’y, ain’t ‘e a-waitin’ an’ a-waitin’ to get at this cove—­this cove wi’ the nice white ‘ands an’ the takin’ ways, ain’t ‘e awatchin’ an’ a-watchin’ to meet ’im some lonely night —­and when ’e do meet ’im—­” The Pedler sighed.

“Well?”