"It's my corduroys," said I.

"Then I discommend your corduroys. But I approve your laugh.
Laugh again--only at the right matter: laugh at this--"

And, opening his book again, he read a long passage as I walked
beside him; but I could make neither head nor tail of it.

"That is from the 'Sentimental Journey,' by Laurence Sterne, the most
beautiful of your English wits. Ah, he is more than French!
Laugh at it."

It was rather hard to laugh thus to order; but suddenly he set me the
example, showing two rows of very white teeth, and fetching from his
hollow chest a sound of mirth so incongruous with the whole aspect of
the man, that I began to grin too.

"That's right; but be louder. Make the sounds that you made just
now--"

He broke off sharply, being seized with an ugly fit of coughing, that
forced him to halt and lean on his staff for a while. When he
recovered we walked on together after the geese, he talking all the
way in high-flown sentences that were Greek to me, and I stealing a
look every now and then at his olive face, and half inclined to take
to my heels and run.

We came at length to the ridge where the road dives suddenly into
Tregarrick. The town lies along a narrow vale, and looking down, we
saw flags waving along the street and much smoke curling from the