"I've read a good many nov-els in my time," said he, shaking his head, "and I knows what I'm talking of;" here he bolted the morsel of bacon with much apparent relish. "I've made love to duchesses, run off with heiresses, and fought dooels—ah! by the hundred—all between the covers of some book or other and enjoyed it uncommonly well—especially the dooels. If you can get a little blood into your book, so much the better; there's nothing like a little blood in a book—not a great deal, but just enough to give it a 'tang,' so to speak; if you could kill your highwayman to start with it would be a very good beginning to your story."
"I could do that, certainly," said I, "but it would not be according to fact."
"So much the better," said the Tinker; "who wants facts in a nov-el?"
"Hum!" said I.
"And then again—"
"What more?" I inquired.
"Love!" said the Tinker, wiping his knife-blade on the leg of his breeches.
"Love?" I repeated.
"And plenty of it," said the Tinker.
"I'm afraid that is impossible," said I, after a moment's thought.