"Wholesale!" echoed the Sandman, removing the pipe from his lips. "That sounds awful. But what a precious donkey he must be to register his crimes i' that way." "He didn't expect the pocket-book to fall into our hands," said the Tinker. "Werry likely not," replied the Sandman; "but somebody else might see it. I repeat, he must be a fool. S'pose we wos to make a entry of everythin' we does. Wot a nice balance there'd be agin us ven our accounts comed to be wound up!" "Ourn is a different bus'ness altogether," replied the Tinker. "This seems a werry mysterious sort o' person. Wot age should you take him to be?" "Vy, five-an'-twenty at the outside," replied the Sandman. "Five-an'-sixty 'ud be nearer the mark," replied the Tinker. "There's dates as far back as that." "Five-an'-sixty devils!" cried the Sandman; "there must be some mistake i' the reckonin' there." "No, it's all clear an' reg'lar," rejoined the other; "and that doesn't seem to be the end of it neither. I looked over the papers twice, and one, dated 1780, refers to some other dokiments." "They must relate to his granddad, then," said the Sandman; "it's impossible they can refer to him." "But I tell 'ee they _do_ refer to him," said the Tinker, somewhat angrily, at having his assertion denied; "at least, if his own word's to be taken. Anyhow, these papers is waluable to us. If no one else believes in 'em, it's clear he believes in 'em hisself, and will be glad to buy 'em from us." "That's a view o' the case worthy of an Old Bailey lawyer," replied the Sandman. "Wot's the gemman's name?" "The name on the card is AURIOL DARCY," replied the Tinker. "Any address?" asked the Sandman. The Tinker shook his head. "That's unlucky agin," said the Sandman. "Ain't there no sort o' clue?" "None votiver, as I can perceive," said the Tinker. "Vy, zounds, then, ve're jist vere ve started from," cried the Sandman. "But it don't matter. There's not much chance o' makin' a bargin vith him. The crack o' the skull I gave him has done his bus'ness." "Nuffin' o' the kind," replied the Tinker. "He alvays recovers from every kind of accident." "Alvays recovers!" exclaimed the Sandman, in amazement. "Wot a constitootion he must have!" "Surprisin'!" replied the Tinker; "he never suffers from injuries--at least, not much; never grows old; and never expects to die; for he mentions wot he intends doin' a hundred years hence." "Oh, he's a lu-nattic!" exclaimed the Sandman, "a downright lu-nattic; and that accounts for his wisitin' that 'ere ruined house, and a-fancyin' he heerd some one talk to him. He's mad, depend upon it. That is, if I ain't cured him." "I'm of a different opinion," said the Tinker. "And so am I," said Mr. Ginger, who had approached unobserved, and overheard the greater part of their discourse. "Vy, vot can you know about it, Ginger?" said the Sandman, looking up, evidently rather annoyed.