"Come, didn't I 'once tell you I were married?"

"You did."

"Very well then! Trees as ain't trees is bad enough, Lord knows!--but women's worse--ah!" said the Pedler, shaking his head, "a sight worse! Ye see, trees ain't got tongues--leastways not as I ever heerd tell on, an' a tree never told a lie--or ate a apple, did it?"

"What do you mean by 'ate an apple'?"

"I means as a tree can't tell a lie, or eat a apple, but a woman can tell a lie--which she does--frequent, an' as for apples--"

"But--" I began.

"Eve ate a apple, didn't she?"

"The Scriptures say so," I nodded.

"An' told a lie arterwards, didn't she?"

"So we are given to understand."

"Very well then!" said the Pedler, "there y' are!" and he turned to spit into the shadow again. "Wot's more," he continued, "'twere a woman as done me out o' my birthright."

"How so?"

"Why, 'twere Eve as got us druv out o' the Gardin o' Eden, weren't it? If it 'adn't been for Eve I might ha' been livin' on milk an' 'oney, ah! an' playin' wi' butterflies, 'stead o' bein'

married, an' peddlin' these 'ere brooms. Don't talk to me o'

women, my chap; I can't abide 'em bah! if theer's any trouble afoot you may take your Bible oath as theer's a woman about some'eres--theer allus is!"

"Do you think so?"

"I knows so; ain't I a-'earin' an' a-seein' such all day, an'

every day--theer's Black Jarge, for one."

"What about him?"

"What about 'im!" repeated the Pedler; "w'y, ain't 'is life been ruined, broke, wore away by one o' them Eves?--very well then!"

"What do you mean--how has his life been ruined?"

"Oh! the usual way of it; Jarge loves a gell--gell loves Jarge --sugar ain't sweeter--very well then! Along comes another cove --a strange cove--a cove wi' nice white 'ands an' soft, takin'

ways--'e talks wi' 'er walks wi' 'er--smiles at 'er--an' pore Jarge ain't nowheeres--pore Jarge's cake is dough--ah! an' doughy dough at that!"

"How do you come to know all this?"

"'Ow should I come to know it but from the man 'isself? 'Dick,'

says 'e" (baptismal name Richard, but Dick for short), "'Dick,'

says 'e, 'd'ye see this 'ere stick?' an' 'e shows me a good, stout cudgel cut out o' th' 'edge, an' very neatly trimmed it were too. 'Ah! I sees it, Jarge,' says I. 'An' d'ye see this un?' says 'e, 'oldin' up another as like the first as one pea to its fellow. 'Ah! I sees that un too, Jarge,' says I. 'Well,'

says Jarge, 'one's for 'im an' one's for me--'e can take 'is chice,' 'e says, 'an' when we do meet, it's a-goin' to be one or t' other of us,' 'e says, an' wot's more--'e looked it! 'If I 'ave to wait, an' wait, an' foller 'im, an' foller 'im,' says Jarge, 'I'll catch 'im alone, one o' these fine nights, an' it'll be man to man.'"

"And when did he tell you all this?"

"'S marnin' as ever was."

"Where did you see him?"

"Oh, no!" said the Pedler, shaking his head, "not by no manner o'

means. I'm married, but I ain't that kind of a cove!"

"What do you mean?"

"The runners is arter 'im--lookin' for 'im 'igh an' low, an'

--though married, I ain't one to give a man away. I ain't a friendly cove myself, never was, an' never shall be--never 'ad a friend all my days, an' don't want one but I likes Black Jarge--I pities, an' I despises 'im."

"Why do you despise him?"

Because 'e carries on so, all about a Eve--w'y, theer ain't a woman breathin' as is worth a man's troublin' 'is lead over, no, nor never will be--yet 'ere's Black Jarge ready--ah! an' more than willin' to get 'isself 'ung, an' all for a wench--a Eve--"

"Get, himself hanged?" I repeated.

"Ah 'ung! w'y, ain't 'e a-waitin' an' a-waitin' to get at this cove--this cove wi' the nice white 'ands an' the takin' ways, ain't 'e awatchin' an' a-watchin' to meet 'im some lonely night --and when 'e do meet 'im--" The Pedler sighed.

"Well?"

"W'y, there'll be blood shed--blood!--quarts on it--buckets on it! Black Jarge'll batter this 'ere cove's 'ead soft, so sure as I were baptized Richard 'e'll lift this cove up in 'is great, strong arms, an' 'e'll throw this cove down, an' 'e'll gore 'im, an' stamp 'im down under 'is feet, an' this cove's blood'll go soakin' an' a-soakin' into the grass, some'eres beneath some 'edge, or in some quiet corner o' the woods--and the birds'll perch on this cove's breast, an' flutter their wings in this cove's face, 'cause they'll know as this cove can never do nobody no 'urt no wore; ah! there'll be blood--gallons of it!"

"I hope not!" said I. "Ye do, do ye?"

"Most fervently!"

"An' 'cause why?"

"Because I happen to be that cove," I answered.

"Oh!" said the Pedler, eyeing me more narrowly; "you are, are ye?"

"I am!"

"Yet you ain't got w'ite 'ands."

"They were white once," said I.

"An' I don't see as your ways is soft--nor yet takin'!"

"None the less, I am that cove!"

"Oh!" repeated the Pedler, and, having turned this intelligence over in his mind, spat thoughtfully into the shadow again. "You won't be wantin' ever a broom, I think you said?"

"No," said I.