"Young fellow," said he, staring, "I follow a main-zorry trade in these days. I be a thatcher, and thatching to-the-truth-of-music is about done for. If you look at these thatched cottages about Dorset they will tell their own story. Why, the reed is just thrown on the roof hugger-mugger. They can't thatch no more down this part, I can tellee; they lay it on all of a heap."
"And is this the straw for thatching?" I inquired.
"Yes," said he, smiling; "they call them bundles of reed in Dorset—but in my country, which is Devon, they call 'em 'nitches o' reed.'"
"Then you are not contented with your trade?"
"Not quite," answered the thatcher, his face falling. "It has always been my wish to have a little inn—and barrels o' beer down 'ouze and money...."
"Far better be a thatcher," said I.
"I'll be dalled ef I can see why."
"It's an out-of-doors life in the first place," said I.
The thatcher nodded, and his cap looked about as perilous as the Leaning Tower of Pisa.