Hereupon, I suddenly realized how exceedingly keen was my appetite, and sighed, bethinking me that I must first find a tavern before I could satisfy my craving, when a voice reached me from no great distance, a full, rich, sonorous voice, singing a song. And the words of the song were these:
"A tinker I am, O a tinker am I,
A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die;
If the King in his crown would change places wi' me
I'd laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he:
'A tinker I am, O a tinker am I.
A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die.'"
It was a quaint air, with a shake at the end of the first two and last two lines, which, altogether, I thought very pleasing. I advanced, guided by the voice, until I came out into a grassy lane. Seated upon an artfully-contrived folding stool, was a man. He was a very small man despite his great voice, who held a kettle between his knees, and a light hammer in his hand, while a little to one side of him there blazed a crackling fire of twigs upon which a hissing frying-pan was balanced. But what chiefly drew and held my attention was the man's face; narrow and peaked, with little, round, twinkling eyes set deep in his head, close black hair, grizzled at the temples, and a long, blue chin.
And presently, as I stood staring at him, he finished his song, and chancing to raise his eyes stared back at me.
"Good morning!" said he at last, with a bright nod.
"So then you didn't cut your throat in the Hollow Oak, after all?" said
I.
"Nor likely to either, master," he answered, shaking his head. "Lord love your eyes and limbs, no!"
"But," said I, "some day or so ago I met a man—"
"Ah!" nodded the Tinker, "to be sure you did."
"A pedler of brooms, and ribands—"