The day (’twas drawing near noon as I started) was cold and clear, with a coating of rime over the fields: and my horse’s feet rang cheerfully on the frozen road. His pace was of the soberest: but, as I was no skilful rider, this suited me rather than not. Only it was galling to be told so, as happened before I had gone three miles. ’Twas my friend the pickpocket: and he sat before a fire of dry sticks a little way back from the road. His scanty hair, stiff as a badger’s, now stood upright around his batter’d cap, and he look’d at me over the bushes, with his hook’d nose thrust forward like a bird’s beak. “Bien lightmans, comrade—good day! ’Tis a good world; so stop and dine.” I pull’d up my grey. “Glad you find it so,” I answered; “you had a nigh chance to compare it with the next, last night.” “Shan’t do so well i’ the next, I fear,” he said with a twinkle: “but I owe thee something, and here’s a hedgehog that in five minutes’ll be baked to a turn. ’Tis a good world, and the better that no man can count on it. Last night my dripping duds helped me to a cant tale, and got me a silver penny from a man of religion. Good’s in the worst; and life’s like hunting the squirrel—a man gets much good exercise thereat, but seldom what he hunts for.” “That’s as good morality as Aristotle’s,” said I. “’Tis better for _me_, because ’tis mine.” While I tether’d my horse he blew at the embers, wherein lay a good-sized ball of clay, baking. After a while he look’d up with red cheeks. “They were so fast set on drowning me,” he continued with a wink, “they couldn’t spare time to look i’ my pocket—the ruffin cly them!” He pull’d the clay ball out of the fire, crack’d it, and lo! inside was a hedgehog cook’d, the spikes sticking in the clay, and coming away with it. So he divided the flesh with his knife, and upon a slice of bread from his wallet it made very delicate eating: tho’ I doubt if I enjoyed it as much as did my comrade, who swore over and over that the world was good, and as the wintry sun broke out, and the hot ashes warm’d his knees, began to chatter at a great pace. “Why, sir, but for the pretty uncertainty of things I’d as lief die here as I sit——” He broke off at the sound of wheels, and a coach with two postillions spun past us on the road. I had just time to catch a glimpse of a figure huddled in the corner, and a sweet pretty girl with chestnut curls seated beside it, behind the glass. After the coach came a heavy broad-shoulder’d servant riding on a stout grey; who flung us a sharp glance as he went by, and at twenty yards’ distance turn’d again to look.