sound of one sighing gustily, and I sat up, peering.

"All right, friend," murmured the Tinker drowsily; "'tis only my
Diogenes!"

"And who is Diogenes?"

"My pony, for sure!"

"But why do you call him Diogenes?"

"Because Diogenes lived in a tub an'--he don't! Good night, young
friend! Never thought o' writing a nov-el, I s'pose?" he enquired
suddenly.

"Never! Why do you ask?"

"I met a young cove once, much like you only bigger, and this young
cove threatened to write a nov-el an' put me into it. That was years
ago, an' I've sold and read a good many nov-els since then, but never
came across myself in ever a one on 'em."

"Good night!" said I and very presently heard him snore. But as for me
I lay wakeful, busied with my thoughts and staring up at the radiant
heaven. "No!" said I to myself at last, speaking my thought aloud,
"No, I shall never be a poet!"