For some minutes the tinker considered her and her question with an exaggerated gravity; then he nodded his head in a final agreement.
“Grand! I’m bound that way myself; maybe ye know Arden?”
“Maybe.”
“And how far might it be?”
“Seven miles.”
Patsy wrinkled her forehead. “That’s strange; ’twas seven miles last night, and I’ve tramped half the distance already, I’m thinking. Never mind! What’s behind won’t trouble me, and the rest of the way will soon pass in good company. Come on,” and she beckoned her head in indisputable command.
Once again he considered her slowly. Then, as if satisfied, he swung himself down from his perch on the stump fence, gathered up his kit, and in another minute had fallen into step with her; and the two were contentedly tramping along the road.
“The man who’s writing this play,” mused Patsy, “is trying to match wits with Willie Shakespeare. If any one finds him out they’ll have him up for plagiarizing.”
She chuckled aloud, which caused the tinker to cast an uneasy glance in her direction.
“Poor lad! The half-wits are always suspicious of others’ wits. He thinks I’m fey.” And then aloud: “Maybe ye are not knowing it, but anything at all is likely to happen to ye to-day—on the road to Arden. According to Willie Shakespeare—whom ye are not likely to be acquainted with—it’s a place where philosophers and banished dukes and peasants and love-sick youths and lions and serpents all live happily together under the ‘Greenwood Tree.’ Now, I’m the banished duke’s own daughter—only no one knows it; and ye—sure, ye can take your choice between playing the younger brother—or the fool.”