“Not a bit,” said be; “when you’ve been a-walkin’ an’ a-walkin’ all day past ’edge and ’edge, and tree and tree, it’s bad enough, but it’s worse when the sun’s gone out, an’ you foller the glimmer o’ the road on and on, past ’edges as ain’t ’edges, and trees as ain’t trees, but things as touch you as you pass, and reach out arter you in the dark, behind.  Theer’s one on ’em, back theer on the Cranbrook road, looks like an oak-tree in the daytime—­ah, an’ a big ’un—­it’s nearly ’ad me three times a’ready—­once by the leg, once by the arm, and once by the neck.  I don’t pass it arter dark no more, but it’ll ’ave me yet—­mark my words—­it’ll ‘ave me one o’ these fine nights; and they’ll find me a-danglin’ in the gray o’ the dawn!”

“Do you mean that you are afraid?” I inquired.

“No, not afeared exactly; it’s jest the loneliness—­the lonely quietness.  Why, Lord! you aren’t got no notion o’ the tricks the trees and ‘edges gets up to a’ nights—­nobody ’as but us as tramps the roads.  Bill Nye knowed, same as I know, but Bill Nye’s dead; cut ’is throat, ‘e did, wi’ one o’ ’is own razors—­under a ’edge.”

“And what for?” I inquired, as the Pedler paused to spit lugubriously into the road again.

“Nobody knowed but me.  William Nye ’e were a tinker, and a rare, merry ’un ’e were—­a little man always up to ‘is jinkin’ and jokin’ and laughin’.  ‘Dick,’ ’e used to say (but Richard I were baptized, though they calls me Dick for short), ‘Dick,’ ’e used to say, ’d’ye know that theer big oak-tree—­the big, ’oller oak as stands at the crossroads a mile and a ‘alf out o’ Cranbrook?  A man might do for ’isself very nice, and quiet, tucked away inside of it, Dick,’ says ’e; ’it’s such a nice, quiet place, so snug and dark, I wonder as nobody does.  I never pass by,’ says ’e, ’but I takes a peep inside, jest to make sure as theer aren’t no legs a-danglin’, nor nobody ’unched up dead in the dark.  It’s such a nice, quiet place,’ e used to say, shakin’ ’is lead, and smilin’ sad-like, ‘I wonder as nobody’s never thought of it afore.’  Well, one day, sure enough, poor Bill Nye disappeared—­nobody knowed wheer.  Bill, as I say, was a merry sort, always ready wi’ a joke, and that’s apt to get a man friends, and they searched for ’im ’igh and low, but neither ’ide nor ‘air o’ poor Bill did they find.  At last, one evenin’ I ’appened to pass the big oak—­the ‘oller oak, and mindin’ Bill’s words, thinks I—­’ere’s to see if ‘tis empty as Bill said.  Goin’ up to it I got down on my ’ands and knees, and, strikin’ a light, looked inside; and there, sure enough, was poor Bill Nye hunched up inside of it wi’ a razor in ’is ’and, and ’is ‘ead nigh cut off—­and what wi’ one thing and another, a very unpleasant sight he were.”

“And why—­why did he do it?” I asked.

“Because ’e ‘ad to, o’ course—­it’s jest the loneliness.  They’ll find me some day, danglin’—­I never could abide ’blood myself—­danglin’ to the thing as looks like a oak tree in the daytime.”