"And who was he?"
"Youth! lovely, beautiful Youth! but let us be happy. I would not have him back—foolish, inconstant Youth! dreaming dreams an' seeing visions. God love ye, boy! what is thy dream?"
This rallying style of talk, in which the clock tinker indulged so freely, afforded his young friend no little amusement. His tongue had long obeyed the lilt of classic diction; his thought came easy in Elizabethan phrase. The slight Celtic brogue served to enhance the piquancy of his talk. Moreover he was really a man of wit and imagination.
"Once," said the boy, after a little hesitation, "I thought I should try to be a statesman, but now I am sure I would rather write books."
"An' what kind o' books, pray?"
"Tales."
"An' thy merchandise be truth, capital!" exclaimed the tinker.
"Hast thou an ear for tales?"
"I'm very fond of them."
"Marry, I'll tell thee a true tale, not for thy ear only but for thy soul, an' some day, boy, 'twill give thee occupation for thy wits."
"I'd love to hear it," said the boy.