"Well, but who are you?" says _Father_, "and what do you want of me?" "Don't you mind me?" says _Patteson_; "I played Hold-your-tongue, last _Christmasse_ Revel was five Years, and they called me a smart Chap then, but last _Martinmasse_ I fell from the Church Steeple, and shook my Brain-pan, I think, for its Contents have seemed addled ever since; soe what I want now is to be made a Fool." "Then you are not one already?" says _Father_. "If I were," says _Patteson_, "I shoulde not have come to _you_." "Why, Like cleaves to Like, you know they say," says _Father_. "Aye," says t'other, "but I've Reason and Feeling enow, too, to know you are no Fool, though I thoughte you might want one. Great People like 'em at their Tables, I've hearde say, though I am sure I can't guesse why, for it makes me sad to see Fools laughed at; ne'erthelesse, as I get laughed at alreadie, methinketh I may as well get paid for the Job if I can, being unable, now, to doe a Stroke of Work in hot Weather. And I'm the onlie Son of my Mother, and she is a Widow. But perhaps I'm not bad enough." "I know not that, poor Knave," says _Father_, touched with quick Pity, "and, for those that laugh at Fools, my Opinion, _Patteson_, is that they are the greater Fools who laugh. To tell you the Truth, I had had noe Mind to take a Fool into mine Establishment, having alwaies had a Fancy to be prime Fooler in it myselfe; however, you incline me to change my Purpose, for as I said anon, Like cleaves to Like, soe, I'll tell you what we will doe--divide the Businesse and goe Halves--I continuing the Fooling, and thou receiving the Salary; that is, if I find, on Inquiry, thou art given to noe Vice, including that of Scurrillitie." "May it like your Goodness," says poor _Patteson_, "I've been the Subject, oft, of Scurrillitie, and affect it too little to offend that Way myself. I ever keep a civil Tongue in my Head, 'specially among young Ladies." "That minds me," says _Father_, "of a Butler who sayd he always was sober, especially when he only had Water to drink. Can you read and write?" "Well, and what if I cannot?" returns _Patteson_, "there ne'er was but one, I ever heard of, that knew Letters, never having learnt, and well he might, for he made them that made them." "_Meg_, there is Sense in this poor Fellow," says _Father_, "we will have him Home and be kind to him." And, sure enow, we have done so and been so ever since. _Tuesday, 25th._