Even in that drowsy, semi-conscious state, that most delightful borderland which lies midway between sleeping and waking, I knew it could not be the woodpecker who, as I judged from sundry manifest signs, lodged in the tree above me. No woodpecker that ever pecked could originate such sounds as these—two quick, light strokes, followed by another, and heavier, thus: Tap, tap—TAP; a pause, and then, tap, tap—TAP again, and so on. Whatever doubts I may have yet harbored on the subject, however, were presently dispelled by a fragrance sweeter, to the nostrils of a hungry man, than the breath of flowers, the spices of the East, or all the vaunted perfumes of Arabia—in a word, the odor of frying bacon. Hereupon, I suddenly realized how exceedingly keen was my appetite, and sighed, bethinking me that I must first find a tavern before I could satisfy my craving, when a voice reached me from no great distance, a full, rich, sonorous voice, singing a song. And the words of the song were these: "A tinker I am, O a tinker am I, A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die; If the King in his crown would change places wi' me I'd laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he: 'A tinker I am, O a tinker am I. A tinker I'll live, and a tinker I'll die.'" It was a quaint air, with a shake at the end of the first two and last two lines, which, altogether, I thought very pleasing. I advanced, guided by the voice, until I came out into a grassy lane. Seated upon an artfully-contrived folding stool, was a man. He was a very small man despite his great voice, who held a kettle between his knees, and a light hammer in his hand, while a little to one side of him there blazed a crackling fire of twigs upon which a hissing frying-pan was balanced. But what chiefly drew and held my attention was the man's face; narrow and peaked, with little, round, twinkling eyes set deep in his head, close black hair, grizzled at the temples, and a long, blue chin. And presently, as I stood staring at him, he finished his song, and chancing to raise his eyes stared back at me. "Good morning!" said he at last, with a bright nod. "So then you didn't cut your throat in the Hollow Oak, after all?" said I. "Nor likely to either, master," he answered, shaking his head. "Lord love your eyes and limbs, no!" "But," said I, "some day or so ago I met a man—" "Ah!" nodded the Tinker, "to be sure you did." "A pedler of brooms, and ribands—" "'Gabbing' Dick!" nodded the Tinker. "Who told me very seriously—" "That I'd been found in the big holler oak wi' my throat cut," nodded the Tinker. "But what did he mean by it?" "Why, y' see," explained the Tinker, leaning over to turn a frizzling bacon-rasher very dexterously with the blade of a jack-knife, "y' see, 'Gabbing' Dick is oncommon fond of murders, hangings, sooicides, and such like—it's just a way he's got." "A very unpleasant way!" said I.