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The squire recognized the voice of the tinker; but though he now guessed at the ringleader, on that day of general amnesty he had the prudence and magnanimity not to say, "Stand forth, Sprott: thou art the man." Yet his gallant English spirit would not suffer him to come off at the expense of his servant. "If it was Nick Stirn you meant," said he, gravely, "more shame for you.
"Well, please yourself," quoth the tinker; "you shall have the books for four bob, and you can pay me next month." "Four bobs, four shillings? it is a great sum," said Lenny; "but I will lay by, as you are kind enough to trust me: good-evening, Mr. Sprott."
Sprott," said I, "this young lady is come from Scotland seeking him, and by whatever mistake, was given the name of your house for a direction. An error it seems to have been, but I think this places both you and me who am but her fellow-traveller by accident under a strong obligation to help our countrywoman." "Will you ding me daft?" he cries.
"And after 'muck, John Sprott, write 'God save the King. I don't know that 'tis necessary, but you'll be on the safe side."
So saying, the tinker slid his panniers on the ground, gave a grunt of release and satisfaction, and seated himself with great composure on the stile from which Leonard had retreated. "But, dash my wig," resumed Mr. Sprott, as he once more surveyed Leonard, "vy, you bees a rale gentleman, now, surely! Vot's the dodge, eh?" "Dodge!" repeated Leonard, mechanically, "I don't understand you."
"You here, Mr. Sprott! What could bring you so far from home?" "'Ome!" echoed the tinker, "I 'as no 'ome! or rather, d' ye see, Muster Fairfilt, I makes myself at 'ome verever I goes! Lor' love ye! I ben't settled on no parridge. I wanders here and I vanders there, and that's my 'ome verever I can mend my kettles and sell my tracks!"
But, alas for him! before he got into the public path, the proprietor of the land, Mr. The tinker stopped, and Mr. Avenel stalked up to him. "What the devil are you doing on my property, lurking by my hedge? I suspect you are an incendiary!" "I be a tinker," quoth Mr. Sprott, not louting low, for a sturdy republican was Mr. Sprott, but, like a lord of human kind,
I have inclosed you, by way of expiation, some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprott sent it me. The inscription on the stone is as follows: "HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, Born, September 5th, 1751 Died, 16th October 1774.
Leonard, who had been thrown into grave thought by the history of Sprott and the village genius, now pressing the parson's hand, asked permission to wait on him before Mr. Dale quitted London; and was about to withdraw, when the parson, gently detaining him, said, "No; don't leave me yet, Leonard, I have so much to ask you, and to talk about. I shall be at leisure shortly.
"But indeed the man is very plausible," says he. "And now it seems that you have busied yourself handsomely in the matter of my daughter, for whose direction I was remitted to yourself." "I think, sir," said I, with a very painful air, "that it will be necessary we two should have an explanation." "There is nothing amiss?" he asked. "My agent, Mr. Sprott " "For God's sake moderate your voice!"
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