Part 1—Chapter VII
Looking out for Business not exactly minding your own Business—The Loss of the Scales occasions the Loss of Place to Timothy and me, who when weighed in other Scales were found wanting—We bundle off with our Bundles on.
It happened one market-day that there was an overdriven, infuriated beast, which was making sad havoc. Crowds of people were running past our shop in one direction, and the cries of “Mad bull!” were re-echoed in every quarter.
Mr Cophagus, who was in the shop, and to whom, as I have before observed, a mad bull was a source of great profit, very naturally looked out of the shop to ascertain whether the animal was near to us. In most other countries, when people hear of any danger, they generally avoid it by increasing their distance, but in England, it is too often the case, that they are so fond of indulging their curiosity, that they run to the danger. Mr Cophagus, who perceived the people running one way, naturally supposed, not being aware of the extreme proximity of the animal, that the people were running to see what was the matter, and turned his eyes in that direction, walking out on the pavement that he might have a fairer view. He was just observing, “Can’t say—fear—um—rascal Pleggit—close to him—get all the custom—wounds—contusions—and—” when the animal came suddenly round the corner upon Mr Cophagus, who had his eyes the other way, and before he could escape tossed him through his own shop windows, and landed him on the counter. Not satisfied with this, the beast followed him into the shop. Timothy and I pulled Mr Cophagus over towards us, and he dropped inside the counter, where we also crouched, frightened out of our wits. To our great horror the bull made one or two attempts to leap the counter; but not succeeding, and being now attacked by the dogs and butcher boys, he charged at them through the door, carrying away our best scales on his horns as a trophy, as he galloped out of the shop in pursuit of his persecutors. When the shouts and hallooes were at some little distance, Timothy and I raised our heads and looked round us; and perceiving that all was safe, we proceeded to help Mr Cophagus, who remained on the floor bleeding, and in a state of insensibility. We carried him into the back parlour and laid him on the sofa. I desired Timothy to run for surgical aid as fast as he could, while I opened a vein; and in a few minutes he returned with our opponent, Mr Ebenezer Pleggit. We stripped Mr Cophagus, and proceeded to examine him. “Bad case this—very bad case, indeed, Mr Newland—dislocation of the os humeri—severe contusion on the os frontis—and I’m very much afraid there is some intercostal injury. Very sorry, very sorry, indeed, for my brother Cophagus.” But Mr Pleggit did not appear to be sorry; on the contrary, he appeared to perform his surgical duties with the greatest glee.
We reduced the dislocation, and then carried Mr Cophagus up to his bed. In an hour he was sensible; and Mr Pleggit took his departure, shaking hands with Mr Cophagus, and wishing him joy of his providential escape. “Bad job, Japhet,” said Mr Cophagus to me. “Very bad, indeed; sir; but it might have been worse.”
“Worse—um—no, nothing worse—not possible.”
“Why, sir, you might have been killed.”
“Pooh! didn’t mean that—mean Pleggit—rascal—um—kill me if he can—shan’t though—soon get rid of him—and so on.”
“You will not require his further attendance now that your shoulder is reduced. I can very well attend upon you.”
“Very true, Japhet;—but won’t go—sure of that—damned rascal—quite pleased—I saw it—um—eyes twinkled—smile checked—and so on.”
That evening Mr Pleggit called in as Mr Cophagus said that he would, and the latter showed a great deal of impatience; but Mr Pleggit repeated his visits over and over again, and I observed that Mr Cophagus no longer made any objection; on the contrary, seemed anxious for his coming, and still more so, after he was convalescent, and able to sit at his table. But the mystery was soon divulged. It appeared that Mr Cophagus, although he was very glad that other people should suffer from mad bulls, and come to be cured, viewed the case in a very different light when the bull thought proper to toss him, and having now realised a comfortable independence, he had resolved to retire from business, and from a site attended with so much danger. A hint of this escaping him when Mr Pleggit was attending him on the third day after his accident, the latter, who knew the value of the locale, also hinted that if Mr Cophagus was inclined so to do, that he would be most happy to enter into an arrangement with him. Self-interest will not only change friendship into enmity, in this rascally world, but also turn enmity into friendship. All Mr Pleggit’s enormities, and all Mr Cophagus’s shameful conduct, were mutually forgotten. In less than ten minutes it was “My dear Mr Pleggit, and so on,” and “My dear brother Cophagus.”
In three weeks everything had been arranged between them, and the shop, fixtures, stock in trade, and good will were all the property of our ancient antagonist. But although Mr Pleggit could shake hands with Mr Cophagus for his fixtures and good will, yet as Timothy and I were not included in the good will, neither were we included among the fixtures, and Mr Cophagus could not, of course, interfere with Mr Pleggit’s private arrangements. He did all he could do in the way of recommendation; but Mr Pleggit had not forgotten my occasional impertinences or the battle of the bottles. I really believe that his ill-will against Timothy was one reason for purchasing the good will of Mr Cophagus; and we were very gently told by Mr Pleggit that he would have no occasion for our services.
Mr Cophagus offered to procure me another situation as soon as he could, and at the same time presented me with twenty guineas, as a proof of his regard and appreciation of my conduct—but this sum put in my hand decided me: I thanked him, and told him I had other views at present, but hoped he would let me know where I might find him hereafter, as I should be glad to see him again. He told me he would leave his address for me at the Foundling Hospital, and shaking me heartily by the hand, we parted. Timothy was then summoned. Mr Cophagus gave him five guineas, and wished him good fortune.
“And now, Japhet, what are you about to do?” said Timothy, as he descended into the shop.
“To do,” replied I; “I am about to leave you, which is the only thing I am sorry for. I am going, Timothy, in search of my father.”
“Well,” replied Timothy, “I feel as you do, Japhet, that it will be hard to part; and there is another thing on my mind—which is, I am very sorry that the bull did not break the rudimans (pointing to the iron mortar and pestle); had he had but half the spite I have against it, he would not have left a piece as big as a thimble. I’ve a great mind to have a smack at it before I go.”
“You will only injure Mr Cophagus, for the mortar will not then be paid for.”
“Very true; and as he has just given me five guineas, I will refrain from my just indignation. But now, Japhet, let me speak to you. I don’t know how you feel, but I feel as if I could not part with you. I do not want to go in search of my father particularly. They say it’s a wise child that knows its own father—but as there can be no doubt of my other parent—if I can only hit upon her, I have a strong inclination to go in search of my mother, and if you like my company, why I will go with you—always, my dear Japhet,” continued Tim, “keeping in my mind the great difference between a person who has been fee’d as an M.D., and a lad who only carries out his prescriptions.”
“Do you really mean to say, Tim, that you will go with me?”
“Yes, to the end of the world, Japhet, as your companion, your friend, and your servant, if you require it I love you, Japhet, and I will serve you faithfully.”
“My dear Tim, I am delighted; now I am really happy: we will have but one purse, and but one interest; if I find good fortune, you shall share it.”
“And if you meet with ill luck, I will share that too—so the affair is settled—and as here comes Mr Pleggit’s assistants with only one pair of eyes between them, the sooner we pack up the better.”
In half an hour all was ready; a bundle each, contained our wardrobes. We descended from our attic, walked proudly through the shop without making any observation, or taking any notice of our successors; all the notice taken was by Timothy, who turned round and shook his fist at his old enemies, the iron mortar and pestle; and there we were, standing on the pavement, with the wide world before us, and quite undecided which way we should go.
“Is it to be east, west, north, or south, Japhet?” said Timothy.
“The wise men came from the east,” replied I.
“Then they must have travelled west,” said Tim; “let us show our wisdom by doing the same.”
“Agreed.”
Passing by a small shop we purchased two good sticks, as defenders, as well as to hang our bundles on—and off we set upon our pilgrimage.
Part 1—Chapter VIII
We take a Coach, but the Driver does not like his Fare and hits us foul—We change our Mode of travelling, upon the Principle of slow and sure, and fall in with a very learned man.
I believe it to be a very general custom, when people set off upon a journey to reckon up their means—that is, to count the money which they may have in their pockets. At all events, this was done by Timothy and me, and I found that my stock amounted to twenty-two pounds eighteen shillings, and Timothy’s to the five guineas presented by Mr Cophagus, and three halfpence which were in the corner of his waistcoat pocket—sum total, twenty-eight pounds three shillings and three halfpence; a very handsome sum, as we thought, with which to commence our peregrinations, and, as I observed to Timothy, sufficient to last us for a considerable time, if husbanded with care.
“Yes,” replied he, “but we must husband our legs also, Japhet, or we shall soon be tired, and very soon wear out our shoes. I vote we take a hackney-coach.”
“Take a hackney-coach, Tim! we mustn’t think of it; we cannot afford such a luxury; you can’t be tired yet, we are now only just clear of Hyde Park Corner.”
“Still I think we had better take a coach, Japhet, and here is one coming. I always do take one when I carry out medicines, to make up for the time I lose looking at the shops, and playing peg in the ring.”
I now understood what Timothy meant, which was, to get behind and have a ride for nothing. I consented to this arrangement, and we got up behind one which was already well filled inside. “The only difference between an inside and outside passenger in a hackney-coach is, that, one pays, and the other does not,” said I, to Timothy, as we rolled along at the act of parliament speed of four miles per hour.
“That depends upon circumstances: if we are found out, in all probability we shall not only have our ride, but be paid into the bargain.”
“With the coachman’s whip, I presume?”
“Exactly.” And Timothy had hardly time to get the word out of his mouth, when flac, flac, came the whip across our eyes—a little envious wretch, with his shirt hanging out of his trowsers, having called out Cut behind! Not wishing to have our faces, or our behinds cut any more, we hastily descended, and reached the footpath, after having gained about three miles on the road before we were discovered.
“That wasn’t a bad lift, Japhet, and as for the whip I never mind that with corduroys. And now, Japhet, I’ll tell you something; we must get into a waggon, if we can find one going down the road, as soon as it is dark.”
“But that will cost money, Tim.”
“It’s economy, I tell you; for a shilling, if you bargain, you may ride the whole night, and if we stop at a public-house to sleep, we shall have to pay for our beds, as well as be obliged to order something to eat, and pay dearer for it than if we buy what we want at cooks’ shops.”
“There is sense in what you say, Timothy; we will look out for a waggon.”
“Oh! it’s no use now—waggons are like black beetles, not only in shape but in habits, they only travel by night—at least most of them do. We are now coming into long dirty Brentford, and I don’t know how you feel, Japhet, but I find that walking wonderfully increases the appetite—that’s another reason why you should not walk when you can ride—for nothing.”
“Well, I’m rather hungry myself; and dear me, how very good that piece of roast pork looks in that window!”
“I agree with you—let’s go in and make a bargain!”
We bought a good allowance for a shilling, and after sticking out for a greater proportion of mustard than the woman said we were entitled to, and some salt, we wrapped it up in a piece of paper, and continued our course, till we arrived at a baker’s, where we purchased our bread; and then taking up a position on a bench outside a public-house, called for a pot of beer, and putting our provisions down before us, made a hearty, and, what made us more enjoy it, an independent meal. Having finished our pork and our porter, and refreshed ourselves, we again started and walked till it was quite dark, when we felt so tired that we agreed to sit down on our bundles and wait for the first waggon which passed. We soon heard the jingling of bells, and shortly afterwards its enormous towering bulk appeared between us and the sky. We went up to the waggoner, who was mounted on a little pony, and asked him if he could give two poor lads a lift, and how much he would charge us for the ride.
“How much can ye afford to give, measters? for there be others as poor as ye.” We replied that we could give a shilling. “Well, then, get up in God’s name, and ride as long as you will. Get in behind.”
“Are there many people in there already?” said I as I climbed up, and Timothy handed me the bundles.
“Noa,” replied the waggoner, “there be nobody but a mighty clever ’poticary or doctor, I can’t tell which; but he wears an uncommon queer hat, and he talk all sort of doctor stuff—and there be his odd man and his odd boy; that be all, and there be plenty of room, and plenty o’ clean stra’.”
After this intimation we climbed up, and gained a situation in the rear of the waggon under the cloth. As the waggoner said, there was plenty of room, and we nestled into the straw without coming into contact with the other travellers. Not feeling any inclination to sleep, Timothy and I entered into conversation, sotto voce, and had continued for more than half an hour, supposing by their silence, that the other occupants of the waggon were asleep, when we were interrupted by a voice clear and sonorous as a bell.
“It would appear that you are wanderers, young men, and journey you know not whither. Birds seek their nests when the night falls—beasts hasten to their lairs—man bolts his door. ‘Propria quae maribus,’ as Herodotus hath it; which, when translated, means, that ‘such is the nature of mankind.’ ‘Tribuuntur mascula dicas,’ ‘Tell me your troubles,’ as Homer says.”
I was very much surprised at this address—my knowledge of the language told me immediately that the quotations were out of the Latin grammar, and that all his learning was pretence; still there was a novelty of style which amused me, and at the same time gave me an idea that the speaker was an uncommon personage. I gave Timothy a nudge, and then replied—
“You have guessed right, most learned sir; we are, as you say, wanderers seeking our fortunes, and trust yet to find them—still we have a weary journey before us. ‘Haustus horâ somni sumendum,’ as Aristotle hath it; which I need not translate to so learned a person as yourself.”
“Nay, indeed, there is no occasion; yet am I pleased to meet with one who hath scholarship,” replied the other. “Have you also a knowledge of the Greek?”
“No, I pretend not to Greek.”
“It is a pity that thou hast it not, for thou wouldst delight to commune with the ancients. Aesculapius hath these words—‘Asholder—offmotton accapon—pasti—venison,’—which I will translate for thee—‘We often find what we seek when we least expect it.’ May it be so with you, my friend. Where have you been educated? and what has been your profession?”
I thought I risked little in telling, so I replied, that I had been brought up as a surgeon and apothecary, and had been educated at a foundation school.
“’Tis well,” replied he; “you have then commenced your studies in my glorious profession; still, have you much to learn; years of toil, under a great master, can only enable you to benefit mankind as I have done, and years of hardship and of danger must be added thereunto, to afford you the means. There are many hidden secrets. ‘Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, Virorum,’—many parts of the globe to traverse, ‘Ut Cato, Virgilius, fluviorum, ut Tibris, Orontes.’ All these have I visited, and many more. Even now do I journey to obtain more of my invaluable medicine, gathered on the highest Andes, when the moon is in her perigee. There I shall remain for months among the clouds, looking down upon the great plain of Mexico, which shall appear no larger than the head of a pin, where the voice of man is heard not. ‘Vocito, vocitas, vocitavi,’ bending for months towards the earth. ‘As in presenti,’ suffering with the cold—‘frico quod fricui dat,’ as Eusebius hath it. Soon shall I be borne away by the howling winds towards the New World, where I can obtain more of the wonderful medicine, which I may say never yet hath failed me, and which nothing but love towards my race induces me to gather at such pains and risk.”
“Indeed, sir,” replied I, amused with his imposition, “I should like to accompany you—for, as Josephus says most truly, ‘Capiat pilulae duae post prandium.’ Travel is, indeed, a most delightful occupation, and I would like to run over the whole world.”
“And I would like to follow you,” interrupted Timothy. “I suspect we have commenced our grand tour already—three miles behind a hackney-coach—ten on foot, and about two, I should think, in this waggon. But as Cophagus says, ‘Cochlearija crash many summendush,’ which means, ‘There are ups and downs in this world.’”
“Hah!” exclaimed our companion. “He, also, has the rudiments.”
“Nay, I hope I’ve done with the Rudimans,” replied Timothy.
“Is he your follower?” inquired the man.
“That very much depends upon who walks first,” replied Timothy, “but whether or no—we hunt in couples.”
“I understand—you are companions. ‘Concordat cum nominativo numero et persona.’ Tell me, can you roll pills, can you use the pestle and the mortar, handle the scapula, and mix ingredients?”
I replied, that of course I knew my profession.
“Well, then, as we have still some hours of night, let us now obtain some rest. In the morning, when the sun hath introduced us to each other, I may then judge from your countenances whether it is likely that we may be better acquainted. Night is the time for repose, as Quintus Curtius says, ‘Custos, bos, fur atque sacerdos.’ Sleep was made for all—my friends, good night.”
Part 1—Chapter IX
In which the Adventures in the Waggon are continued, and we become more puzzled with our new Companions—We leave off talking Latin, and enter into an engagement.
Timothy and I took his advice, and were soon fast asleep.
I was awakened the next morning by feeling a hand in my trowser’s pocket. I seized it, and held it fast.
“Now just let go my hand, will you?” cried a lachrymal voice.
I jumped up—it was broad daylight, and looked at the human frame to which the hand was an appendix. It was a very spare, awkwardly-built form of a young man, apparently about twenty years old, but without the least sign of manhood on his chin. His face was cadaverous, with large goggling eyes, high cheek bones, hair long and ragged, reminding me of a rat’s nest, thin lips, and ears large almost as an elephant’s. A more woe-begone wretch in appearance I never beheld, and I continued to look at him with surprise. He repeated his words with an idiotical expression, “Just let go my hand, can’t you?”
“What business had your hand in my pocket?” replied I, angrily.
“I was feeling for my pocket handkerchief,” replied the young man. “I always keeps it in my breeches’ pocket.”
“But not in your neighbour’s, I presume?”
“My neighbour’s!” replied he, with a vacant stare. “Well, so it is, I see now—I thought it was my own.”
I released his hand; he immediately put it into his own pocket, and drew out his handkerchief, if the rag deserved the appellation.
“There,” said he, “I told you I put it in that pocket—I always do.”
“And pray who are you?” said I, as I looked at his dress, which was a pair of loose white Turkish trowsers, and an old spangled jacket.
“Me! why, I’m the fool.”
“More knave than fool, I expect,” replied I, still much puzzled with his strange appearance and dress.
“Nay, there you mistake,” said the voice of last night. “He is not only a fool by profession, but one by nature. It is a half-witted creature, who serves me when I would attract the people. Strange, in this world, that wisdom may cry in the streets without being noticed, yet folly will always command a crowd.”
During this address I turned my eyes upon the speaker. He was an elderly-looking person, with white hair, dressed in a suit of black, ruffles and frill. His eyes were brilliant, but the remainder of his face it was difficult to decipher, as it was evidently painted, and the night’s jumbling in the waggon had so smeared it, that it appeared of almost every colour in the rainbow. On one side of him lay a large three-cornered cocked hat, on the other, a little lump of a boy, rolled up in the straw like a marmot, and still sound asleep. Timothy looked at me, and when he caught my eye, burst out into a laugh.
“You laugh at my appearance, I presume,” said the old man, mildly.
“I do in truth,” replied Timothy. “I never saw one like you before, and I dare say never shall again.”
“That is possible; yet probably if you meet me again you would not know me.”
“Among a hundred thousand,” replied Timothy, with increased mirth.
“We shall see, perhaps,” replied the quack doctor, for such the reader must have already ascertained to be his profession; “but the waggon has stopped, and the driver will bait his horses. If inclined to eat, now is your time. Come, Jumbo, get up; Philotas, waken him, and follow me.”
Philotas, for so was the fool styled by his master, twisted up some straw, and stuffed the end of it into Jumbo’s mouth. “Now Jumbo will think he has got something to eat. I always wake him that way,” observed the fool, grinning at us.
It certainly, as might be expected, did waken Jumbo, who uncoiled himself, rubbed his eyes, stared at the tilt of the waggon, then at us, and without saying a word, rolled himself out after the fool. Timothy and I followed. We found the doctor bargaining for some bread and bacon, his strange appearance exciting much amusement, and inducing the people to let him have a better bargain than perhaps otherwise they would have done. He gave a part of the refreshment to the boy and the fool, and walked out of the tap-room with his own share. Timothy and I went to the pump, and had a good refreshing wash, and then for a shilling were permitted to make a very hearty breakfast. The waggon having remained about an hour, the driver gave as notice of his departure; but the doctor was nowhere to be found. After a little delay, the waggoner drove off, cursing him for a bilk, and vowing that he’d never have any more to do with a “lamed man.” In the mean time Timothy and I had taken our seats in the waggon, in company with the fool, and Master Jumbo. We commenced a conversation with the former, and soon found out, as the doctor had asserted, that he really was an idiot, so much so that it was painful to converse with him. As for the latter, he had coiled himself away to take a little more sleep. I forgot to mention, that the boy was dressed much in the same way as the fool, in an old spangled jacket, and dirty white trowsers. For about an hour Timothy and I conversed, remarking upon the strange disappearance of the doctor, especially as he had given us hopes of employing us; in accepting which offer, if ever it should be made, we had not made up our minds, when we were interrupted with a voice crying out, “Hillo, my man, can you give a chap a lift as far as Reading, for a shilling?”
“Ay, get up, and welcome,” replied the waggoner.
The waggon did not stop, but in a moment or two the new passenger climbed in. He was dressed in a clean smock frock, neatly worked up the front, leather gaiters, and stout shoes; a bundle and a stick were in his hand. He smiled as he looked round upon the company, and showed a beautiful set of teeth. His face was dark, and sun-burnt, but very handsome, and his eyes as black as coals, and as brilliant as gas. “Heh! player folk—I’ve a notion,” said he, as he sat down, looking at the doctor’s attendants, and laughing at us. “Have you come far, gentlemen?” continued he.
“From London,” was my reply.
“How do the crops look up above, for down here the turnips seem to have failed altogether? Dry seasons won’t do for turnips.”
I replied that I really could not satisfy him on that point, as it was dark when we passed.
“Very true—I had forgotten that,” replied he. “However, the barleys look well; but perhaps you don’t understand farming?”
I replied in the negative and the conversation was kept up for two or three hours, in the course of which I mentioned the quack doctor, and his strange departure.
“That is the fellow who cured so many people at —,” replied he; and the conversation then turned upon his profession and mode of life, which Timothy and I agreed must be very amusing. “We shall meet him again, I dare say,” replied the man. “Would you know him?”
“I think so, indeed,” replied Timothy, laughing.
“Yes, and so you would think that you would know a guinea from a halfpenny, if I put it into your hands,” replied the man. “I do not wish to lay a bet, and win your money; but I tell you, that I will put either the one or the other into each of your hands, and if you hold it fast for one minute, and shut your eyes during that time, you will not be able to tell me which it is that you have in it.”
“That I am sure I would,” replied Tim; and I made the same assertion.
“Well, I was taken in that way at a fair, and lost ten shillings by the wager; now, we’ll try whether you can tell or not.” He took out some money from his pocket, which he selected without our seeing it, put a coin into the hand of each of us, closing our fists over it, “and now,” said he, “keep your eyes shut for a minute.”
We did so, and a second or two afterwards we heard a voice which we instantly recognised. “Nay, but it was wrong to leave me on the way-side thus, having agreed to pay the sum demanded. At my age one walketh not without fatigue, ‘Excipenda tamen quaedam sunt urbium,’ as Philostratus says, meaning, ‘That old limbs lose their activity, and seek the help of a crutch.’”
“There’s the doctor,” cried Timothy, with his eyes still shut.
“Now open your eyes,” said the man, “and tell me, before you open your hand, what there is in it.”
“A halfpenny in mine,” said Tim.
“A guinea in mine,” replied I.
We opened our hands, and they were empty.
“Where the devil is it?” exclaimed I, looking at Tim.
“And where the devil’s the doctor?” replied he, looking round.
“The money is in the doctor’s pocket,” replied the man, smiling.
“Then where is the doctor’s pocket?”
“Here,” replied he, slapping his pocket, and looking significantly at us. “I thought you were certain of knowing him again. About as certain as you were of telling the money in your hand.”
He then, to our astonishment, imitated the doctor’s voice, and quoted prosody, syntax, and Latin. Timothy and I were still in astonishment, when he continued, “If I had not found out that you were in want of employ, and further, that your services would be useful to me, I should not have made this discovery. Do you now think that you know enough to enter into my service? It is light work, and not bad pay; and now you may choose.”
“I trust,” said I, “that there is no dishonesty?”
“None that you need practise, if you are so scrupulous: perhaps your scruples may some day be removed. I make the most of my wares—every merchant does the same. I practise upon the folly of mankind—it is on that, that wise men live.”
Timothy gave me a push, and nodded his head for me to give my consent. I reflected a few seconds, and at last I extended my hand. “I consent,” replied I, “with the reservation I have made.”
“You will not repent,” said he; “and I will take your companion, not that I want him particularly, but I do want you. The fact is, I want a lad of gentlemanly address, and handsome appearance—with the very knowledge you possess—and now we will say no more for the present. By-the-by, was that real Latin of yours?”
“No,” replied I, laughing; “you quoted the grammar, and I replied with medical prescriptions. One was as good as the other.”
“Quite—nay, better; for the school-boys may find me out, but not you. But now observe, when we come to the next cross-road, we must get down—at least, I expect so; but we shall know in a minute.”
In about the time he mentioned, a dark, gipsy-looking man looked into the waggon, and spoke to our acquaintance in an unknown language. He replied in the same, and the man disappeared. We continued our route for about a quarter of an hour, when he got out, asked us to follow him, and speaking a few words to the fool, which I did not hear, left him and the boy in the waggon. We paid our fare, took possession of our bundles, and followed our new companion for a few minutes on the cross-road, when he stopped, and said, “I must now leave you, to prepare for your reception into our fraternity; continue straight on this road until you arrive at a lime-kiln, and wait there till I come.”
He sprang over a stile, and took a direction verging at an angle from the road, forced his way through a hedge, and disappeared from our sight. “Upon my word, Timothy,” said I, “I hardly know what to say to this. Have we done right in trusting to this man, who, I am afraid, is a great rogue? I do not much like mixing with these gipsy people, for such I am sure he belongs to.”