"Hodge bain't my name!"
And grinned with the triumph of a philosopher. "What may be your name, then, my most veracious hair-splitter?"
"I be no splitter. Who be ye a-callin' names? As for my name, that I'll keep to myself." Saying which, the labourer fastened a loose button with an air of determination.
With a chuckle, the stranger replied, "Like yourself, O tiller of the soil!--for such you are, I opine, and, as such, the noblest work of God--like yourself, I am but a poor player, who struts and frets his hour upon the stage."
"Eh! a player I was thinking ye didn't look like a worker! I know en when I see en;" and the labourer grinned again at his own wit.
"But 'tis not of ourselves I wish to speak," said the stranger in a tone which he purposely made grandiloquent; "tis of another--of the gentleman to whom you doffed your cap, and who has just left us."
"What do you want of en!" demanded the labourer, in a sharp tone, cocking his ears like a terrier.
"His name."
"Eh! More names! D'ye come down here to rob us of en? But there be no harm a-tellin' of ye. It may be a warnin' to ye. 'A's name be Mister Weston."
All the stranger's light manner was gone.