tinker?"

"Hmm!" was again the answer. It conveyed an impression of hesitant
doubt, as if the speaker would have avoided, if he could, the
responsibility of being anything at all, even a tinker.

"That's grand," encouraged Patsy. "I like tinkers, and, what's more,
I'm a bit of a vagabond myself. I'll grant ye that of late years the
tinkers are treated none too hearty about Ireland; but there was a
time--" Patsy's mind trailed off into the far past, into a maze of
legend and folk-tale wherein tinkers were figures of romance and
mystery. It was good luck then to fall in with such company; and
Patsy, being more a product of past romance than present
civilization, was pleased to read into this meeting the promise of a
fair road and success to her quest.

Moreover, there was another appeal--the apparent helpless
bewilderment of the man himself and his unreality. He was certainly
not in possession of all his senses, from whatever world he might
have dropped; and helplessness in man or beast was a blood bond with
Patsy, making instant claim on her own abundant sympathies and wits.

She held the tinker with a smile of open comradeship while her voice
took on an alluring hint of suggestion. "Ye can't be thinking of
hanging onto that stump all day--now what road might ye be
taking--the one to Arden?"

For some minutes the tinker considered her and her question with an
exaggerated gravity; then he nodded his head in a final agreement.

"Grand! I'm bound that way myself; maybe ye know Arden?"

"Maybe."

"And how far might it be?"

"Seven miles."

Patsy wrinkled her forehead. "That's strange; 'twas seven miles last
night, and I've tramped half the distance already, I'm thinking.
Never mind! What's behind won't trouble me, and the rest of the way
will soon pass in good company. Come on," and she beckoned her head
in indisputable command.

Once again he considered her slowly. Then, as if satisfied, he swung
himself down from his perch on the stump fence, gathered up his kit,
and in another minute had fallen into step with her; and the two
were contentedly tramping along the road.

"The man who's writing this play," mused Patsy, "is trying to match
wits with Willie Shakespeare. If any one finds him out they'll have
him up for plagiarizing."

She chuckled aloud, which caused the tinker to cast an uneasy glance
in her direction.

"Poor lad! The half-wits are always suspicious of others' wits. He
thinks I'm fey." And