CHAPTER VIII.

"Kettles and frying-pans! what has us here?" cried the tinker.

This time Mr. Sprott was without his donkey; for it being Sunday, it is
presumed that the donkey was enjoying his Sabbath on the common. The
tinker was in his Sunday's best, clean and smart, about to take his
lounge in the park.

Lenny Fairfield made no answer to the appeal.

"You in the wood, my baby! Well, that's the last sight I should ha'
thought to see. But we all lives to larn," added the tinker,
sententiously. "Who gave you them leggins? Can't you speak, lad?"

"Nick Stirn."

"Nick Stirn! Ay, I'd ha' ta'en my davy on that: and cos vy?"

"'Cause I did as he told me, and fought a boy as was trespassing on these
very stocks; and he beat me--but I don't care for that; and that boy was
a young gentleman, and going to visit the squire; and so Nick Stirn--"
Lenny stopped short, choked by rage and humiliation.

"Augh," said the tinker, starting, "you fit with a young gentleman, did
you? Sorry to hear you confess that, my lad! Sit there and be thankful
you ha' got off so cheap. 'T is salt and battery to fit with your
betters, and a Lunnon justice o' peace would have given you two months o'
the treadmill.