"By the ghost of Black Ben the Bruiser," said he, clapping his friendly antagonist on the shoulder, "you're a man, you are! None other shall have her, I swear."
"Have whom?" asked Dan, bathing his crimsoned nose in the bucket.
"Never you mind, rye," replied Tim, ambiguously; "that's neither here nor there. It might be Mother Jericho, for all you know."
Not particularly attentive to this speech, Dan went on splashing up the ice-cold water; and Tim, with his black beard clutched in one begrimed hand, sat looking steadily at him. The vagrant seemed to find favour in his eyes, for during his scrutiny he grunted once or twice as though satisfied. It was evidently something more than personal prowess that recommended Dan to the gipsy giant. What it was must remain locked up in Tim's brain for the present.
"Why didn't Mother Jericho come with you, Tim?"
"She's got the rheumatism, rye, and sits in her tent squeaking like a trapped rabbit. 'Twas she who told me to look ye up."
"Wanted to know the result of her prophecy, I suppose?"
"Ay, ay! She told your fortune, did she? A good un for charming brass out of pockets, she is. Maybe she promised ye a wench, lad?"
"That she did. Two wenches! I met one this morning."
"Did ye, now? And where, my brave rye?"