ill the gentleman comes home. You are rather too young; and
besides I have other matters to consult him about; I have two or three
papers in my pocket . . ."

"You cannot see him to-day," said I; "but you were talking of an assault.
Has any one been beating you?"

"Not exactly; I got into a bit of a ruffle, and am threatened with an
action."

"Oh! so you have been beating somebody."

"And if I did, how could I help it? I'll tell you how it happened. I
have a gift of making verses, as perhaps you know--in fact, everybody
knows. When I had sowed my little trifle of corn in the bit of ground
that my father left me, having nothing better to do, I sat down and wrote
a set of lines to my lord, in which I told him what a fine old gentleman
he was. Then I took my stick and walked off to ---, where, after a
little difficulty, I saw my lord, and read the verses to him which I had
made, offering to print them if he thought proper. Well, he was mightily
pleased with them, and said they were too good to be printed, and begged
that I would do no such thing, which I promised him I would not, and left
him, not before, however, he had given me a King James' guinea, which
they say is worth two of King George's. Well, I made my bow and went to
the village, and in going past the ale-house I thought I would just step
in, which I did. The house was full of people, chiefly farmers, and when
they saw me they asked me to sit down and take a glass with them, which I
did, and being called upon for a song I sang one, and then began talking
about myself and how much my lord thought of me, and I repeated the lines
which I had written to him, and showed them the James' guinea he had
given me. You should have seen the faces they cast upon me at the sight
of the gold; they couldn't stand it, for it was a confirmation to their
envious hearts of all I had told them. Presently one called me a
boasting fool, and getting up said that my lord was a yet greater fool
for listening to me, and then added that the lines I had been reading
were not of my own making. 'No, you dog,' said he, 'they are not of your
own making; you got somebody to make them for you.' Now, I do not mind
being called a boaster, nor a dog either, but when he told me that my
verses were not my own, I couldn't contain myself, so I told him he lied,
whereupon he flung a glass of liquor in my face, and I knocked him down."

"Mr. Parkinson," said I, "are you much in the habit o