‘What are you doing to the man?’ demands Jasper, stepping out into the moonlight from the shade.

‘Making a cock-shy of him,’ replies the hideous small boy.

‘Give me those stones in your hand.’

’Yes, I’ll give ’em you down your throat, if you come a-ketching hold of me,’ says the small boy, shaking himself loose, and backing.  ‘I’ll smash your eye, if you don’t look out!’

‘Baby-Devil that you are, what has the man done to you?’

‘He won’t go home.’

‘What is that to you?’

’He gives me a ’apenny to pelt him home if I ketches him out too late,’ says the boy.  And then chants, like a little savage, half stumbling and half dancing among the rags and laces of his dilapidated boots:-

’Widdy widdy wen! 
I—­ket—­ches—­Im—­out—­ar—­ter—­ten,
Widdy widdy wy! 
Then—­E—­don’t—­go—­then—­I—­shy —
Widdy Widdy Wake-cock warning!’

- with a comprehensive sweep on the last word, and one more delivery at Durdles.

This would seem to be a poetical note of preparation, agreed upon, as a caution to Durdles to stand clear if he can, or to betake himself homeward.

John Jasper invites the boy with a beck of his head to follow him (feeling it hopeless to drag him, or coax him), and crosses to the iron railing where the Stony (and stoned) One is profoundly meditating.

‘Do you know this thing, this child?’ asks Jasper, at a loss for a word that will define this thing.

‘Deputy,’ says Durdles, with a nod.

‘Is that its—­his—­name?’

‘Deputy,’ assents Durdles.

‘I’m man-servant up at the Travellers’ Twopenny in Gas Works Garding,’ this thing explains.  ‘All us man-servants at Travellers’ Lodgings is named Deputy.  When we’re chock full and the Travellers is all a-bed I come out for my ‘elth.’  Then withdrawing into the road, and taking aim, he resumes:-

’Widdy widdy wen! 
I—­ket—­ches—­Im—­out—­ar—­ter—­’

‘Hold your hand,’ cries Jasper, ’and don’t throw while I stand so near him, or I’ll kill you!  Come, Durdles; let me walk home with you to-night.  Shall I carry your bundle?’

‘Not on any account,’ replies Durdles, adjusting it.  ’Durdles was making his reflections here when you come up, sir, surrounded by his works, like a poplar Author.—­Your own brother-in-law;’ introducing a sarcophagus within the railing, white and cold in the moonlight.  ‘Mrs. Sapsea;’ introducing the monument of that devoted wife.  ‘Late Incumbent;’ introducing the Reverend Gentleman’s broken column.  ‘Departed Assessed Taxes;’ introducing a vase and towel, standing on what might represent the cake of soap.  ’Former pastrycook and Muffin-maker, much respected;’ introducing gravestone.  ’All safe and sound here, sir, and all Durdles’s work.  Of the common folk, that is merely bundled up in turf and brambles, the less said the better.  A poor lot, soon forgot.’