"Let the yerbs run through yer veins for two or three minits, an' ye'll step across yon fields as light as a bird 'oppin' to its nest," he declared. "Talk o' tonics,--there's more tonic in a handful o' green stuff growin' as the Lord makes it to grow, than all the purr-escriptions what's sent out o' them big 'ouses in 'Arley Street, London, where the doctors sits from ten to two like spiders waitin' for flies, an' gatherin' in the guineas for lookin' at fools' tongues. Glory be good to me! If all the world were as sick as it's silly, there'd be nowt wantin' to 't but a grave an' a shovel!" Helmsley smiled, and taking another pull at the black bottle, declared himself much better and ready to go on. He was certainly refreshed, and the weary aching of his limbs which had made every step of the road painful and difficult to him, was gradually passing off. "You are very good to me," he said, as he returned the remainder of the "yerb wine" to its owner. "I wonder why?" Peke took a draught of his mixture before replying. Then corking the bottle, he thrust it in his pocket. "Ye wonders why?" And he uttered a sound between a grunt and a chuckle--"Ye may do that! I wonders myself!" And, giving his basket a hitch, he resumed his slow trudging movement onward. "You see," pursued Helmsley, keeping up the pace beside him, and beginning to take pleasure in the conversation--"I may be anything or anybody----" "Ye may that," agreed Peke, his eyes fixed as usual on the ground. "Ye may be a jail-bird or a missioner,--they'se much of a muchity, an' goes on the road lookin' quite simple like, an' the simpler they seems the deeper they is. White 'airs an' feeble legs 'elps 'em along considerable,--nowt's better stock-in-trade than tremblin' shins. Or ye might be a War-office neglect,--ye looks a bit set that way." "What's a War-office neglect?" asked Helmsley, laughing. "One o' them totterin' old chaps as was in the Light Brigade," answered Peke. "There's no end to 'em. They'se all over every road in the country. All of 'em fought wi' Lord Cardigan, an' all o' 'em's driven to starve by an ungrateful Gov'ment. They won't be all dead an' gone till a hundred years 'as rolled away, an' even then I shouldn't wonder if one or two was still left on the tramp a-pipin' his little 'arf-a-league onard tale o' woe to the first softy as forgits the date o' the battle." Here he gave an inquisitive side-glance at his companion. "But you aint quite o' the Balaclava make an' colour. Yer shoulders is millingterry, but yer 'ead is business. Ye might be a gentleman if 'twornt for yer clothes." Helmsley heard this definition of himself without flinching. "I might be a thief," he said--"or an escaped convict. You've been kind to me without knowing whether I am one or the other, or both. And I want to know why?" Peke stopped in his walk. They had come to the stile over which the way lay across the fields, and he rested himself and his basket for a moment against it.