He came upon the Respectable Tramp slumbering peacefully among the wild-flowers. He stopped to look, struck by the celestial tranquillity of that individual's face. And even as he did so the Respectable Tramp awoke with a start and sat up. He was a pallid creature, dressed in rusty black, with a broken-spirited crush hat cocked over one eye. "Good afternoon," he said affably. "How are you?" "Very well, thank you," said the Angel, who had mastered the phrase. The Respectable Tramp eyed the Angel critically. "Padding the Hoof, matey?" he said. "Like me." The Angel was puzzled by him. "Why," asked the Angel, "do you sleep like this instead of sleeping up in the air on a Bed?" "Well I'm blowed!" said the Respectable Tramp. "Why don't I sleep in a bed? Well, it's like this. Sandringham's got the painters in, there's the drains up in Windsor Castle, and I 'aven't no other 'ouse to go to. You 'aven't the price of a arf pint in your pocket, 'ave yer?" "I have nothing in my pocket," said the Angel. "Is this here village called Siddermorton?" said the Tramp, rising creakily to his feet and pointing to the clustering roofs down the hill. "Yes," said the Angel, "they call it Siddermorton." "I know it, I know it," said the Tramp. "And a very pretty little village it is too." He stretched and yawned, and stood regarding the place. "'Ouses," he said reflectively; "Projuce"--waving his hand at the cornfields and orchards. "Looks cosy, don't it?" "It has a quaint beauty of its own," said the Angel. "It _'as_ a quaint beauty of its own--yes.... Lord! I'd like to sack the blooming place.... I was born there." "Dear me," said the Angel. "Yes, I was born there. Ever heard of a pithed frog?" "Pithed frog," said the Angel. "No!" "It's a thing these here vivisectionists do. They takes a frog and they cuts out his brains and they shoves a bit of pith in the place of 'em. That's a pithed frog. Well--that there village is full of pithed human beings." The Angel took it quite seriously. "Is that so?" he said. "That's so--you take my word for it. Everyone of them 'as 'ad their brains cut out and chunks of rotten touchwood put in the place of it. And you see that little red place there?" "That's called the national school," said the Angel. "Yes--that's where they piths 'em," said the Tramp, quite in love with his conceit. "Really! That's very interesting." "It stands to reason," said the Tramp. "If they 'ad brains they'd 'ave ideas, and if they 'ad ideas they'd think for themselves. And you can go through that village from end to end and never meet anybody doing as much. Pithed human beings they are. I know that village. I was born there, and I might be there now, a toilin' for my betters, if I 'adnt struck against the pithin'." "Is it a painful operation?" asked the Angel.