inued tinker, comprehending him perfectly, it don't bring
repentance after it."

"Not nohow, master, it doan't! And"--Speed-the-Plough cocked his eye--"it
doan't eat up half the victuals, your pipe doan't."

Here the honest yeoman gesticulated his keen sense of a clincher, which
the tinker acknowledged; and having, so to speak, sealed up the subject
by saying the best thing that could be said, the two smoked for some time
in silence to the drip and patter of the shower.

Ripton solaced his wretchedness by watching them through the briar hedge.
He saw the tinker stroking a white cat, and appealing to her, every now
and then, as his missus, for an opinion or a confirmation; and he thought
that a curious sight. Speed-the-Plough was stretched at full length, with
his boots in the rain, and his head amidst the tinker's pots, smoking,
profoundly contemplative. The minutes seemed to be taken up alternately
by the grey puffs from their mouths.

It was the tinker who renewed the colloquy. Said he, "Times is bad!"

His companion assented, "Sure-ly!"

"But it somehow comes round right," resumed the tinker. "Why, look here.
Where's the good o' moping? I sees it all come round right and tight. Now
I travels about. I've got my beat. 'Casion calls me t'other day to
Newcastle!--Eh?"

"Coals!" ejaculated Speed-the-Plough sonorously.

"Coals!" echoed the tinker. "You ask what I goes there for, mayhap? Never
you mind. One sees a mort o' life in my trade. Not for coals it isn't.
And I don't carry 'em there, neither. Anyhow, I comes back. London's my
mark. Says I, I'll see a bit o' the sea, and steps aboard a collier. We
were as nigh wrecked as the prophet Paul."

"--A--who's him?" the other wished to know.

"Read your Bible," said the tinker. "We pitched and tossed--'tain't that
game at sea 'tis on land, I can tell ye! I thinks, down we're
a-going--say your prayers, Bob Tiles! That was a night, to be sure! But
God's above the devil, and here I am, ye see." Speed-the-Plough lurched
round on his elbow and regarded him indifferently. "D'ye call that
doctrin'? He bean't al'ays, or I shoo'n't be scrapin' my heels wi'
nothin' to do, and, what's warse, nothin' to eat. Why, look heer. Luck's
luck, and bad luck's the con-trary. Varmer Bollop, t'other day, has's
rick burnt down. Next night his gran'ry's burnt. What do he tak' and go
and do? He takes and goes and hangs unsel', and turns us out of his
employ. God warn't above the devil then