“And why so, my little man?” said Tressilian.
“Because,” answered the ugly urchin, “you are the only three ever called me pretty lad. Now my grandam does it because she is parcel blind by age, and whole blind by kindred; and my master, the poor Dominie, does it to curry favour, and have the fullest platter of furmity and the warmest seat by the fire. But what you call me pretty lad for, you know best yourself.”
“Thou art a sharp wag at least, if not a pretty one. But what do thy playfellows call thee?”
“Hobgoblin,” answered the boy readily; “but for all that, I would rather have my own ugly viznomy than any of their jolter-heads, that have no more brains in them than a brick-bat.”
“Then you fear not this smith whom you are going to see?”
“Me fear him!” answered the boy. “If he were the devil folk think him, I would not fear him; but though there is something queer about him, he's no more a devil than you are, and that's what I would not tell to every one.”
“And why do you tell it to me, then, my boy?” said Tressilian.
“Because you are another guess gentleman than those we see here every day,” replied Dickie; “and though I am as ugly as sin, I would not have you think me an ass, especially as I may have a boon to ask of you one day.”
“And what is that, my lad, whom I must not call pretty?” replied Tressilian.
“Oh, if I were to ask it just now,” said the boy, “you would deny it me; but I will wait till we meet at court.”