elves beneath the mantle, and the small dull eye that blinked over
its upper folds, announced the pottingar as distinctly as if he had
carried his sign in front of his bonnet. His unexpected and most
unwelcome presence overwhelmed the smith with confusion. Ready evasion
was not the property of his bold, blunt temper; and knowing this man
to be a curious observer, a malignant tale bearer, and by no means well
disposed to himself in particular, no better hope occurred to him than
that the worshipful apothecary would give him some pretext to silence
his testimony and secure his discretion by twisting his neck round.

But, far from doing or saying anything which could warrant such
extremities, the pottingar, seeing himself so close upon his stalwart
townsman that recognition was inevitable, seemed determined it should
be as slight as possible; and without appearing to notice anything
particular in the company or circumstances in which they met, he barely
slid out these words as he passed him, without even a glance towards his
companion after the first instant of their meeting: "A merry holiday to
you once more, stout smith. What! thou art bringing thy cousin, pretty
Mistress Joan Letham, with her mail, from the waterside--fresh from
Dundee, I warrant? I heard she was expected at the old cordwainer's."

As he spoke thus, he looked neither right nor left, and exchanging
a "Save you!" with a salute of the same kind which the smith rather
muttered than uttered distinctly, he glided forward on his way like a
shadow.

"The foul fiend catch me, if I can swallow that pill," said Henry Smith,
"how well soever it may be gilded. The knave has a shrewd eye for a
kirtle, and knows a wild duck from a tame as well as e'er a man in
Perth. He were the last in the Fair City to take sour plums for pears,
or my roundabout cousin Joan for this piece of fantastic vanity. I fancy
his bearing was as much as to say, 'I will not see what you might wish
me blind to'; and he is right to do so, as he might easily purchase
himself a broken pate by meddling with my matters, and so he will be
silent for his own sake. But whom have we next? By St. Dunstan, the
chattering, bragging, cowardly knave, Oliver Proudfute!"

It was, indeed, the bold bonnet maker whom they next encountered, who,
with his cap on one side, and trolling the ditty of--

"Thou art over long at the pot, Tom, Tom,"
--gave plain intimation that he had made no dry meal.

"Ha! my