Mr. Traveller looked all around him on Tom Tiddler’s ground, and his glance at last encountered a dusky Tinker lying among the weeds and rank grass, in the shade of the dwelling-house. A rough walking-staff lay on the ground by his side, and his head rested on a small wallet. He met Mr. Traveller’s eye without lifting up his head, merely depressing his chin a little (for he was lying on his back) to get a better view of him.
“Good day!” said Mr. Traveller.
“Same to you, if you like it,” returned the Tinker.
“Don’t you like it? It’s a very fine day.”
“I ain’t partickler in weather,” returned the Tinker, with a yawn.
Mr. Traveller had walked up to where he lay, and was looking down at him. “This is a curious place,” said Mr. Traveller.
“Ay, I suppose so!” returned the Tinker. “Tom Tiddler’s ground, they call this.”
“Are you well acquainted with it?”
“Never saw it afore to-day,” said the Tinker, with another yawn, “and don’t care if I never see it again. There was a man here just now, told me what it was called. If you want to see Tom himself, you must go in at that gate.” He faintly indicated with his chin a little mean ruin of a wooden gate at the side of the house.
“Have you seen Tom?”