"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, 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, {142} 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 waggoner'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." CHAPTER LXIX Effects of Corn--One Night Longer--The Hoofs--A Stumble--Are You Hurt?--What a Difference!--Drowsy--Maze of Bushes--Housekeeping--Sticks and Furze--The Drift-way--Account of Stock--Anvil and Bellows--Twenty Years.