decomposition, and in all its foulness and filth, was almost comforting,
regarded as the only water that could have reflected the shameful place
without seeming polluted by that low office.

Mr. Traveller looked all around him on Tom Tiddler's ground, and his
glance at last encountered a dusky Tinker lying among the weeds and rank
grass, in the shade of the dwelling-house. A rough walking-staff lay on
the ground by his side, and his head rested on a small wallet. He met
Mr. Traveller's eye without lifting up his head, merely depressing his
chin a little (for he was lying on his back) to get a better view of him.

"Good day!" said Mr. Traveller.

"Same to you, if you like it," returned the Tinker.

"Don't _you_ like it? It's a very fine day."

"I ain't partickler in weather," returned the Tinker, with a yawn.

Mr. Traveller had walked up to where he lay, and was looking down at him.
"This is a curious place," said Mr. Traveller.

"Ay, I suppose so!" returned the Tinker. "Tom Tiddler's ground, they
call this."

"Are you well acquainted with it?"

"Never saw it afore to-day," said the Tinker, with another yawn, "and
don't care if I never see it again. There was a man here just now, told
me what it was called. If you want to see Tom himself, you must go in at