“Ay, truly; there's many dove-cotes hereabouts, and collecting be my main business; they do use the sweepings in tanning. I pays a shilling a bushel for'em if they be clean, and so turns an honest penny.--Tinkering isn't half what it was, since iron crocks have come in so much. To be sure, the maidens do save the broken spoons for me to melt and mould again when I comes round; and there's a cullender or so, now and then, to solder;--but what's that?--I'm a tradesman, as well as the pedlar, and what's more, a mechanic; but if my trade won't support me, why should I support my trade, eh?--Well, what did I do; but take to waddling, as we call it, for wood-ashes to sell to the soap-makers, and pigeon-cleanings for the tanners; and so I contrives, one way and another, to make a pretty good bit of bread.” “Is this a specimen?” said the Irishman, taking up the tinker's loaf.--“If it is, faith! then, the world's but a middling oven for you.” “Stop!--here!” cried the tinker, as Doherty was about to roll the loaf along the grass: “Don't do that;--my poney is the biggest thief as ever I knowed,--that is, for a horse. He'd snap it up in no time.” “Would he?--Then I honour him for his talent; though the less we say about his taste the better. Who taught him them tricks?” “Why, I did--that is, partly--but somebody stole him from me.” “Musha! then the man who did that, wouldn't scruple to rob a thief of his picklock. Well!”-- “Well, he got into the riders' hands;--them chaps that goes about to fairs, and revels, you know.” “Yes, I know;--and they finished his education; and when you got him again he was quite accomplished, without any trouble or expense to yourself. Tinker, you're a lucky man! I don't think you and I would ever quarrel upon a point o' conscience.” “No, no;--that wouldn't be natural.” “Friends,” observed the Scotchman, “we're wasting time; and time, to a prudent mon, is siller:--ye're wasting it in idle discourse. The harrings--” “Oh! dirty butter upon your herrings and every one of them! Would you pick a quarrel with me again?” vociferated Darby. “Tinker, bring me one of your second-hand kettles, or crocks, and let's make soup or something, and go to breakfast. If you'll club your herrings, your meal, and your bread,--why then I'll be my whiskey.”