sell the young man the things,
seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him
plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people
couldn't lay the blame on you; but I don't think any ill will befall him,
and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need?'

'I'll hear of no such thing,' said the tinker; 'I have drunk at the young
man's expense, and though he says he's quarrelsome, I would not wish to
sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I should be, now, if I were
to let him follow his own will. If he once sets up on my beat, he's a
lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his head knocked off his
shoulders. There, you are crying, but you shan't have your will though;
I won't be the young man's destruction . . . If, indeed, I thought he
could manage the tinker--but he never can; he says he can hit, but it's
no use hitting the tinker;--crying still! you are enough to drive one
mad. I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two, just now
you were talking of knowing hard words and names--I don't wish to send
you to your mischief--you say you know hard words and names; let us see.
Only on one condition I'll sell you the pony and things; as for the beat
it's gone, isn't mine--sworn away by my own mouth. Tell me what's my
name; if you can't, may I--'

_Myself_. Don't swear, it's a bad habit, neither pleasant nor
profitable. Your name is Slingsby--Jack Slingsby. There don't stare,
there's nothing in my telling you your name: I've been in these parts
before, at least not very far from here. Ten years ago, when I was
little more than a child, I was about twenty miles from here in a
post-chaise, at the door of an inn, and as I looked from the window of
the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter, with a big tin ladle in your
hand, and somebody called you Jack Slingsby. I never forget anything I
hear or see; I can't, I wish I could. So there's nothing strange in my
knowing your name; indeed, there's nothing strange in anything, provided
you examine it to the bottom. Now what am I to give you for the things?

I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade, cart,
and pony--purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also a wagoner's
frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers, deceased, gave my
little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to depart.

'God bless you, young man,' said Slingsby, shaking me by the hand