"What's in it? What's _not_ in it!" And the man gave a gesture of mingled pride and defiance. "There's all what the doctors makes their guineas out of with their purr-escriptions, for they can't purr-escribe no more than is in that there basket without they goes to minerals. An' minerals is rank poison to ivery 'uman body. But so far as 'erbs an' seeds, an' precious stalks an' flowers is savin' grace for man an' beast, Matthew Peke's got 'em all in there. An' Matthew Peke wouldn't be the man he is, if he didn't know where to find 'em better'n any livin' soul iver born! Ah!--an' there aint a toad in a hole hoppin' out between Quantocks an' Cornwall as hasn't seen Matthew Peke gatherin' the blessin' an' health o' the fields at rise o' sun an' set o' moon, spring, summer, autumn, ay, an' even winter, all the year through!" Helmsley became interested. "And you are the man!" he said questioningly--"You are Matthew Peke?" "I am! An' proud so ter be! An' you--'ave yer got a name for the arskin'?" "Why, certainly!" And Helmsley's pale face flushed. "My name is David." "Chrisen name? Surname?" "Both." Matthew Peke shook his head. "'Twon't fadge!" he declared. "It don't sound right. It's like th' owld Bible an' the Book o' Kings where there's nowt but Jews; an' Jews is the devil to pay wheriver you finds 'em!" "I'm not a Jew," said Helmsley, smiling. "Mebbe not--mebbe not--but yer name's awsome like it. An' if ye put it short, like D. David, that's just Damn David an' nothin' plainer. Aint it?" Helmsley laughed. "Exactly!" he said--"You're right! Damn David suits me down to the ground!" Peke looked at him dubiously, as one who is not quite sure of his man. "You're a rum old sort!" he said; "an' I tell ye what it is--you're as tired as a dog limpin' on three legs as has nipped his fourth in a weasel-trap. Wheer are ye goin' on to?" "I don't know," answered Helmsley--"I'm a stranger to this part of the country. But I mean to tramp it to the nearest village. I slept out in the open yesterday,--I think I'd like a shelter over me to-night." "Got any o' the King's pictures about ye?" asked Peke. Helmsley looked, as he felt, bewildered. "The King's pictures?" he echoed--"You mean----?" "This!" and Peke drew out of his tattered trouser pocket a dim and blackened sixpence--"'Ere 'e is, as large as life, a bit bald about the top o' 'is blessed old 'ead, Glory be good to 'im, but as useful as if all 'is 'air was still a blowin' an' a growin'! Aint that the King's picture, D. David? Don't it say 'Edwardus VII. D. G. Britt.,' which means Edward the Seventh, thanks be to God Britain? Don't it?" "It _do_!" replied Helmsley emphatically, taking a fantastic pleasure in the bad grammar of his reply. "I've got a few more pictures of the same kind," and he took out two or three loose shillings and pennies--"Can we get a night's lodging about here for that?"