"Then," I went on, ticking off each item on my fingers, "come Tom
Cragg, the pugilist—"
"Better and better!" nodded the Tinker.
"—a one-legged soldier of the Peninsula, an adventure at a lonely tavern, a flight through woods at midnight pursued by desperate villains, and—a most extraordinary tinker. So far so good, I think, and it all sounds adventurous enough."
"What!" cried the Tinker. "Would you put me in your book then?"
"Assuredly."
"Why then," said the Tinker, "it's true I mends kettles, sharpens scissors and such, but I likewise peddles books an' nov-els, an' what's more I reads 'em—so, if you must put me in your book, you might call me a literary cove."
"A literary cove?" said I.
"Ah!" said the Tinker, "it sounds better—a sight better—besides, I never read a nov-el with a tinker in it as I remember; they're generally dooks, or earls, or barronites—nobody wants to read about a tinker."
"That all depends," said I; "a tinker may be much more interesting than an earl or even a duke."
The Tinker examined the piece of bacon upon his knifepoint with a cold and disparaging eye.