Lavengro · Part I · Chapter 1 68 (2/2)

Tinker.⁠—Horrible, indeed; you may well say horrible, young man; neither more nor less than the Bible⁠—“a Bible, a Bible!” roared the Blazing Tinman; and he pressed my throat so hard against the tree that my senses began to dwaul away⁠—a Bible, a Bible, still ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is a Christian woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a Bible with her at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes she teaches the children to read⁠—it was the only thing she brought with her from the place of her kith and kin, save her own body and the clothes on her back; so my poor wife, half-distracted, runs to her sack, pulls out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of the Blazing Tinman, who then thrusts the end of it into my mouth with such fury that it made my lips bleed, and broke short one of my teeth which happened to be decayed. “Swear,” said he, “swear you mumping villain, take your Bible oath that you will quit and give up the beat altogether, or I’ll⁠—” and then the hard-hearted villain made me swear by the Bible, and my own damnation, half-throttled as I was⁠—to⁠—to⁠—I can’t go on⁠—

Myself.⁠—Take another draught⁠—stout liquor⁠—

Tinker.⁠—I can’t, young man, my heart’s too full, and what’s more, the pitcher is empty.

Myself.⁠—And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to quit the roads?

Tinker.⁠—You are right, he did so, the gypsy villain.

Myself.⁠—Gypsy! Is he a gypsy?

Tinker.⁠—Not exactly; what they call a half and half. His father was a gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked the roads.

Myself.⁠—Is he of the Smiths⁠—the Petulengres?

Tinker.⁠—I say, young man, you know a thing or two; one would think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. I thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of that name⁠—Petulengres! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres whenever he meets them; he likes nobody but himself, and wants to be king of the roads. I believe he is a Boss, or a ⸻ at any rate he’s a bad one, as I know to my cost.

Myself.⁠—And what are you going to do?

Tinker.⁠—Do! you may well ask that; I don’t know what to do. My poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morning, over that half-pint mug of beer; we can’t determine on what’s to be done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The villain swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he’d cut all our throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now standing out there under the tree.

Myself.⁠—And what do you mean to do with your horse and cart?

Tinker.⁠—Another question! What shall we do with our cart and pony? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I will not, both for my oath’s sake and my own. If we had a trifle of money, we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get up a little business, but we have none; our last three farthings we spent about the mug of beer.

Myself.⁠—But why don’t you sell your horse and cart?

Tinker.⁠—Sell them? And who would buy them, unless someone who wished to set up in my line; but there’s no beat, and what’s the use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the beat?

Myself.⁠—I’m half-inclined to buy your cart and pony, and your beat too.

Tinker.⁠—You! How came you to think of such a thing?

Myself.⁠—Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do. I want a home and work. As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my trade to learn to tinker; what better can I do? Would you have me go to Chester and work there now? I don’t like the thoughts of it. If I go to Chester and work there, I can’t be my own man; I must work under a master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, and when I quarrel I am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks are sometimes sent to prison; I don’t like the thought either of going to Chester or to Chester prison. What do you think I could earn at Chester?

Tinker.⁠—A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would employ you, which I don’t think they would with those hands of yours. But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrelsome nature, you must not go to Chester; you would be in the castle in no time. I don’t know how to advise you. As for selling you my stock, I’d see you farther first, for your own sake.

Myself.⁠—Why?

Tinker.⁠—Why! you would get your head knocked off. Suppose you were to meet him?

Myself.⁠—Pooh, don’t be afraid on my account; if I were to meet him I could easily manage him one way or other. I know all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out.

Here the tinker’s wife, who for some minutes past had been listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low, soft tone: “I really don’t see, John, why you shouldn’t sell the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people couldn’t lay the blame on you; but I don’t think any ill will befall him, and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need.”

“I’ll hear of no such thing,” said the tinker; “I have drunk at the young man’s expense, and though he says he’s quarrelsome, I would not wish to sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I should be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will. If he once sets up on my beat, he’s a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his head knocked off his shoulders. There, you are crying, but you shan’t have your will, though; I won’t be the young man’s destruction⁠—If, indeed, I thought he could manage the tinker⁠—but he never can; he says he can hit, but it’s no use hitting the tinker;⁠—crying still! you are enough to drive one mad. I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two; just now you were talking of knowing hard words and names⁠—I don’t wish to send you to your mischief⁠—you say you know hard words and names, let us see. Only on one condition I’ll sell you the pony and things; as for the beat it’s gone, isn’t mine⁠—sworn away by my own mouth. Tell me what’s my name; if you can’t, may I⁠—”

Myself.⁠—Don’t swear, it’s a bad habit, neither pleasant nor profitable. Your name is Slingsby⁠—Jack Slingsby. There, don’t stare, there’s nothing in my telling you your name: I’ve been in these parts before, at least not very far from here. Ten years ago,188 when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles from here in a post-chaise at the door of an inn, and as I looked from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter with a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack Slingsby. I never forget anything I hear or see; I can’t, I wish I could. So there’s nothing strange in my knowing your name; indeed, there’s nothing strange in anything, provided you examine it to the bottom. Now, what am I to give you for the things?

I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade, cart, and pony⁠—purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also a wagoner’s frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers, deceased, gave my little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to depart.

“God bless you, young man,” said Slingsby, shaking me by the hand, “you are the best friend I’ve had for many a day: I have but one thing to tell you: ‘Don’t cross that fellow’s path if you can help it; and stay⁠—should the pony refuse to go, just touch him so, and he’ll fly like the wind.’ ”