"I hope so," said I, somewhat indignantly.
"What's trade?"
"A tailor," I said.
"Tailor!—guide us! Tailor a-tramp? Barn't accoostomed to tramp, then?"
"I never was out of London before," said I, meekly—for I was too worn-out to be cross—lengthy and impertinent as this cross-examination seemed.
"Oi'll gie thee lift; dee yow joomp in. Gae on, powney! Tailor, then! Oh! ah! tailor, saith he."
I obeyed most thankfully, and sat crouched together, looking up out of the corner of my eyes at the huge tower of broad-cloth by my side, and comparing the two red shoulders of mutton which held the reins, with my own wasted, white, woman-like fingers.
I found the old gentleman most inquisitive. He drew out of me all my story—questioned me about the way "Lunnon folks" lived, and whether they got ony shooting or "pattening"—whereby I found he meant skating—and broke in, every now and then, with ejaculations of childish wonder, and clumsy sympathy, on my accounts of London labour and London misery.
"Oh, father, father!—I wonders they bears it. Us'n in the fens wouldn't stand that likes. They'd roit, and roit, and roit, and tak' oot the dook-gunes to un—they would, as they did five-and-twenty year agone. Never to goo ayond the housen!—never to go ayond the housen! Kill me in a three months, that would—bor', then!"
"Are you a farmer?" I asked, at last, thinking that my turn for questioning was come.