“Judging by the little I heard, you sing very well, sir. May I ask who composed the words?”
“They are mine,” replied the singer.
“And the air?”
“Mine too.”
“Accept my compliments. I hope you find these manifestations of genius lucrative?”
The singer, who had not hitherto vouchsafed more than a careless glance at the rustic garb of the questioner, now fixed his eyes full upon Kenelm, and said, with a smile, “Your voice betrays you, sir. We have met before.”
“True; but I did not then notice your guitar, nor, though acquainted with your poetical gifts, suppose that you selected this primitive method of making them publicly known.”
“Nor did I anticipate the pleasure of meeting you again in the character of Hobnail. Hist! let us keep each other’s secret. I am known hereabouts by no other designation than that of the ‘Wandering Minstrel.’”
“It is in the capacity of minstrel that I address you. If it be not an impertinent question, do you know any songs which take the other side of the case?”
“What case? I don’t understand you, sir.”