u
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 q