"I am not!"

"Why, very well then!" said he, nodding and seating himself upon a
small stool. "So be it, young master, and if you'm minded to talk wi'
a lonely man an' share his fire, sit ye down an' welcome. Though being
of a nat'rally enquiring turn o' mind, I'd like to know what you've
been a-doing or who, to be hiding in this wood at this witching hour
when graves do yawn?"

"I might as well ask you why you sit mending a kettle and singing?"

"Because I'm a tinker an' foller my trade, an' trade's uncommon brisk
hereabouts. But as to yourself--"

"You are a strange tinker, I think!" said I, to stay his questioning.

"And why strange?"

"You quote Shakespeare, for one thing--"

"Aha! That's because, although I'm a tinker, I'm a literary cove
besides. I mend kettles and such for a living and make verses for a
pleasure!"

"What, are you a poet?"

"'Ardly that, young sir, 'ardly that!" said he, rubbing his chin with
the shaft of his hammer. "No, 'ardly a poet, p'raps,--but thereabouts.
My verses rhyme an' go wi' a swing, which is summat, arter all, ain't
it? I made the song I was a-singing so blithe an' 'earty--did ye like