street. Few passengers went by, and those who did edged away from the
ponderous, wanton-eyed figure of lazy mischief lounging there, as neatly
as they well could. The Thier hailed two or three. One took to his legs,
another bowed, smirked, gave him a kindly good-day, and affected to hear
no more, having urgent business in prospect. The Thier was a faithful
dog, but the temptation to betray his trust and pursue them was mighty.
He began to experience an equal disposition to cry and roar. He hummed a
ballad--

'I swore of her I'd have my will,
And with him I'd have my way:
I learn'd my cross-bow over the hill:
Now what does my lady say?

Give me the good old cross-bow, after all, and none of these lumbering
puff-and-bangs that knock you down oftener than your man!

'A cross stands in the forest still,
And a cross in the churchyard grey:
My curse on him who had his will,
And on him who had his way!

Good beginning, bad ending! 'Tisn't so always. "Many a cross has the
cross-bow built," they say. I wish I had mine, now, to peg off that old
woman, or somebody. I'd swear she's peeping at me over the gable, or
behind some cranny. They're curious, the old women, curse 'em! And the
young, for that matter. Devil a young one here.

'When I'm in for the sack of a town,
What, think ye, I poke after, up and down?