“Knife-grinder,” I said; “you’ll hear the blade screech on the stone directly.”
“Wrong. That’s Dame Durden with her spinning-wheel.”
“Ah, well, I knew it was a wheel sound. Is there a cottage in there?”
“No,” he said, laughing again; “it’s a bird.”
“Nonsense!”
“It is. It is a night-jar. They make that noise in their throats, and you can see them of a night, flying round and round the trees, like great swallows, catching the moths.”
I looked hard at him.
“I say!”
“Yes; what?”
“Don’t you begin cramming me, because, if you do, I shall try a few London tales on you.”