"Intrusion," I repeated, "and now, if you will kindly allow--" "Intrusion," quoth he, mouthing the word, "intrusion! Why, here's one as don't come my way often! Intrusion! 'T is a good word and rhymes wi' confusion, don't it?" "It does!" said I, wondering at his manner. "And 'oo might you be--and what?" he questioned, beckoning me nearer with a motion of the kettle. "One who has lost his way--" "In silver buttons an' a jerry 'at--hum! You're a young nob, you are, a swell, a tippy, a go--that's what you are! Wherefore and therefore I ask what you might be a-doing in this here wood at midnight's lone hour?" "I am lost--" "Aha!" said he, eyeing me dubiously and scratching his long, blue chin with the spout of his kettle. "A young gent in a jerry 'at--lost an' wandering far from a luxurious 'ome in a wood at midnight! And wherefore? It ain't murder, is it? You aren't been doing to death any pore, con-fiding young fe-male, have ye?" "Good God--no!" I answered in indignant horror. "Why then, you don't 'appen to ha' been robbing your rich uncle and now on your way to London wi' the family jew-ells to make your fortun', having set fire to the fam-ly mansion to cover the traces o' your dark an' desp'ret doin's?" "Certainly not!" "Ha!" said he, with rueful shake of his head, "I knew it--from the first. I suppose you'll tell me you ain't even forged your 'oary-'eaded grandfather's name for to pay off your gambling debts and other gentlemanly dissipations--come now?" "No," said I, a little haughtily, "I am not the rogue and scoundrel you seem determined to take me for." "True!" he sighed. "And what's more, you ain't even got the look of it. Life's full o' disapp'intments to a romantic soul like me and not half so inter-esting as a good nov-el. Now if you'd only 'appened to be a murderer reeking wi' crime an' blood--but you ain't, you tell me?" he questioned, his keen eyes twinkling more brightly than ever. "I am not!" "Why, very well then!" said he, nodding and seating himself upon a small stool. "So be it, young master, and if you'm minded to talk wi' a lonely man an' share his fire, sit ye down an' welcome. Though being of a nat'rally enquiring turn o' mind, I'd like to know what you've been a-doing or who, to be hiding in this wood at this witching hour when graves do yawn?" "I might as well ask you why you sit mending a kettle and singing?" "Because I'm a tinker an' foller my trade, an' trade's uncommon brisk hereabouts. But as to yourself--" "You are a strange tinker, I think!" said I, to stay his questioning. "And why strange?" "You quote Shakespeare, for one thing--" "Aha! That's because, although I'm a tinker, I'm a literary cove besides. I mend kettles and such for a living and make verses for a pleasure!" "What, are you a poet?"