CONCERNING ONE TOM MARTIN, AN OSTLER
I sat upon a hay pile in that same shady corner of the yard behind the "Chequers" inn where once had stood a weather-beaten cart drawn by a four-footed philosopher called Diogenes.
But to-day this corner was empty save for myself, and the yard also except for two or three wains or country waggons and a man in a sleeved waistcoat who chewed upon a straw and stared at the inn, the waggons and myself with a faded, lack-lustre eye and sniffed; so frequently indeed, and so loudly that at last it obtruded itself upon my notice.
"You have a very bad cold!" said I.
"I ain't!" he retorted gloomily.
"Yet you sniff very loud."
"Con-sti-tootional!" quoth he. "My feyther done it afore me, an' 'is feyther afore 'im, 'an 'is feyther afore 'im an'—but wot of it, my chap? Can't a cove sniff if so minded?"
"Certainly!" I answered.
"I ain't said nothink to you about wallerin' in that theer 'ay—'ave
I? Very well! Why can't you let a man sniff in peace?"
"Very well," said I, "sniff!"