"'Im—oh! 'e's mad for 'er, 'e is—'e'd ruin 'isself, body and soul, for 'er, 'e would, but I ain't goin' to offer no more; no woman as ever breathed—no matter 'ow 'andsome an' up-standin'—is worth more 'n a 'undred guineas—it ain't as if she was a blood-mare—an' I'm done!" "Then I wish you good-day!" "But—just think—a 'undred guineas is a fortun'!" "It is!" said I. "Come, think it over," said the Postilion persuasively, "think it over, now!" "Let me fully understand you then," said I; "you propose to pay me one hundred guineas on behalf of your master, known heretofore as Number One, for such information as shall enable him to discover the whereabouts of a certain person known as Her, Number Two—is that how the matter stands?" "Ah! that's 'ow it stands," nodded the Postilion, "the money to be yours as soon as ever 'e lays 'ands on 'er—is it a go?" "No!" "No?" "No!" "W'y, you must be stark, starin' mad—that you must—unless you're sweet on 'er yourself—" "You talk like a fool!" said I angrily. "So you are sweet on 'er then?" "Ass!" said I. "Fool!" And, dropping my hammer, I made towards him, but he darted nimbly to the door, where, seeing I did not pursue, he paused. "I may be a hass," he nodded, "an' I may be a fool—but I don't go a-fallin' in love wi' ladies as is above me, an' out o' my reach, and don't chuck away a 'undred guineas for one as ain't likely to look my way—not me! Which I begs leave to say—hass yourself, an' likewise fool—bah!" With which expletive he set his thumb to his nose, spread out his fingers, wagged them and swaggered off. Above me, and out of my reach! One not likely to look my way! And, in due season, having finished the horseshoe, having set each tool in its appointed place in the racks, and raked out the clinkers from the fire, I took my hat and coat, and, closing the door behind me, set out for the Hollow. CHAPTER XIX HOW I MET BLACK GEORGE AGAIN, AND WHEREIN THE PATIENT READER SHALL FIND A "LITTLE BLOOD" It was evening—that time before the moon is up and when the earth is dark, as yet, and full of shadows. Now as I went, by some chance there recurred to me the words of an old song I had read somewhere, years ago, words written in the glorious, brutal, knightly days of Edward the First, of warlike memory; and the words ran thus: "For her love I carke, and care, For her love I droop, and dare, For her love my bliss is bare. And I wax wan!" "I wonder what poor, love-sick, long-dead-and-forgotten fool wrote that?" said I aloud. "For her love, in sleep I slake, For her love, all night I wake, For her love, I mourning make More than any man!"