"And you can't mend it," added Speed-the-Plough. "It's bad, and there it
be. But I'll tell ye what, master. Bad wants payin' for." He nodded
and winked mysteriously. "Bad has its wages as well's honest work, I'm
thinkin'. Varmer Bollop I don't owe no grudge to: Varmer Blaize I do.
And I shud like to stick a Lucifer in his rick some dry windy night."
Speed-the-Plough screwed up an eye villainously. "He wants hittin' in
the wind,--jest where the pocket is, master, do Varmer Blaize, and he'll
cry out 'O Lor'!' Varmer Blaize will. You won't get the better o' Varmer
Blaize by no means, as I makes out, if ye doan't hit into him jest
there."

The tinker sent a rapid succession of white clouds from his mouth, and
said that would be taking the devil's side of a bad case. Speed-the-
Plough observed energetically that, if Farmer Blaize was on the other, he
should be on that side.

There was a young gentleman close by, who thought with him. The hope of
Raynham had lent a careless half-compelled attention to the foregoing
dialogue, wherein a common labourer and a travelling tinker had
propounded and discussed one of the most ancient theories of transmundane
dominion and influence on mundane affairs. He now started to his feet,
and came tearing through the briar hedge, calling out for one of them to
direct them the nearest road to Bursley. The tinker was kindling
preparations for his tea, under the tawny umbrella. A loaf was set
forth, oh which Ripton's eyes, stuck in the edge, fastened ravenously.
Speed-the-Plough volunteered information that Bursley was a good three
mile from where they stood, and a good eight mile from Lobourne.

"I'll give you half-a-crown for that loaf, my good fellow," said Richard