It was now sunset.  The Hermit¹ had betaken himself to his bed of cinders² half an hour ago, and lying on it in his blanket and skewer³ with his back to the window, took not the smallest heed⁴ of the appeal addressed to him.

 

All that had been said for the last two hours, had been said to a tinkling⁶ accompaniment performed by the Tinker, who had got to work upon some villager’s pot or kettle, and was working briskly outside.  This music still continuing, seemed to put it into Mr. Traveller’s mind to have another word or two with the Tinker.  So, holding Miss Kimmeens (with whom he was now on the most friendly terms) by the hand, he went out at the gate to where the Tinker was seated at his work on the patch of grass on the opposite side of the road, with his wallet of tools open before him, and his little fire smoking.

 

“I am glad to see you employed,” said Mr. Traveller.

 

“I am glad to be employed,” returned the Tinker, looking up as he put the finishing touches to his job.  “But why are you glad?”

 

“I thought you were a lazy fellow when I saw you this morning.”

 

“I was only disgusted,” said the Tinker.

 

“Do you mean with the fine weather?”

 

“With the fine weather?” repeated the Tinker, staring.

 

“You told me you were not particular as to weather, and I thought—”

 

“Ha, ha!  How should such as me get on, if we was particular as to weather?  We must take it as it comes, and make the best of it.  There’s something good in all weathers.  If it don’t happen to be good for my work to-day, it’s good for some other man’s to-day, and will come round to me to-morrow.  We must all live.”

 

“Pray shake hands,” said Mr. Traveller.

 

“Take care, sir,” was the Tinker’s caution, as he reached up his hand in surprise; “the black comes off.”

分享到：