while.

Presently the weaver, who was scarcely so well mannered a man as the
ferryman, said to me rather awkwardly:

"Guest, we don't know what to call you: is there any indiscretion in
asking you your name?"

"Well," said I, "I have some doubts about it myself; so suppose you
call me Guest, which is a family name, you know, and add William to
it if you please."

Dick nodded kindly to me; but a shade of anxiousness passed over the
weaver's face, and he said--"I hope you don't mind my asking, but
would you tell me where you come from? I am curious about such
things for good reasons, literary reasons."

Dick was clearly kicking him underneath the table; but he was not
much abashed, and awaited my answer somewhat eagerly. As for me, I
was just going to blurt out "Hammersmith," when I bethought me what
an entanglement of cross purposes that would lead us into; so I took
time to invent a lie with circumstance, guarded by a little truth,
and said:

"You see, I have been such a long time away from Europe that things
seem strange to me now; but I was born and bred on the edge of Epping
Forest; Walthamstow and Woodford, to wit."

"A pretty place, too," broke in Dick; "a very jolly place, now that
the trees have had time to grow again since the great clearing of