what did the villain then? why the flying villain seized me by the throat, and almost throttled me, roaring - what do you think, young man, that the flaming villain roared out?

Myself. I really don’t know - something horrible, I suppose.

Tinker. Horrible, indeed; you may well say horrible, young man; neither more nor less than the Bible - ‘A Bible, a Bible!’ roared the Blazing Tinman; and he pressed my throat so hard against the tree that my senses began to dwaul away - a Bible, a Bible, still ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is a Christian woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a Bible with her at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes she teaches the children to read - it was the only thing she brought with her from the place of her kith and kin, save her own body and the clothes on her back; so my poor wife, half distracted, runs to her sack, pulls out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of the Blazing Tinman, who then thrusts the end of it into my mouth with such fury that it made my lips bleed, and broke short one of my teeth which happened to be decayed. ‘Swear,’ said he, ‘swear, you mumping villain, take your Bible oath that you will quit and give up the beat altogether, or I’ll - and then the hard-hearted villain made me swear by the Bible, and my own damnation, half-throttled as I was, to - to - I can’t go on -

Myself. Take another draught - stout liquor -

Tinker. I can’t, young man, my heart’s too full, and what’s more, the pitcher is empty.

Myself. And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to quit the roads?

Tinker. You are right, he did so, the gypsy villain.

Myself. Gypsy! Is he a gypsy?

Tinker. Not exactly; what they call a half-and-half. His father was a gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked the roads.

Myself. Is he of the Smiths - the Petulengres?

Tinker. I say, young man, you know a thing or two; one would think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. I thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of that name - Petulengres! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres whenever he meets them; he likes nobody but himself, and wants to be king of the roads. I believe he is a Boss, or a - at any rate he’s a bad one, as I know to my cost.

Myself. And what are you going to do?

Tinker. Do! you may well ask that; I don’t know what to do. My poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morning, over that half-pint mug of beer; we can’t determine on what’s to be done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The villain swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he’d cut all our throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now standing out there under the tree.

Myself. And what do you mean to do with your horse and cart?

Tinker. Another question! What shall we do with our cart and pony? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I will not, both for my oath’s sake and my own. If we had a trifle of money, we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get up a little business, but we have none; our last three farthings we spent about the mug of beer.

Myself. But why don’t you sell your horse and cart?

Tinker. Sell them! and who would buy them, unless some one who wished to set up in my line; but there’s no beat, and what’s the use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the beat?