"Well, for one thing, I means as I don't like your looks, my chap."
"And why don't you like my looks?"
"Lord!" exclaimed the smith, "'ow should I know—but I don't—of that
I'm sartin sure."
"Which reminds me," said I, "of a certain unpopular gentleman of the name of Fell, or Pell, or Snell."
"Eh?" said the smith, staring.
"There is a verse, I remember, which runs, I think, in this wise:
"'I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, or Pell, or Snell,
For reasons which I cannot tell;
But this I know, and know full well,
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, or Pell, or Snell.'"
"So you'm a poet, eh?"
"No," said I, shaking my head.
"Then I'm sorry for it; a man don't meet wi' poets every day," saying which, he drew the scroll from the fire, and laid it, glowing, upon the anvil. "You was wishful to speak wi' me, I think?" he inquired.