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Updated: May 4, 2025
"Ah!" said the Tinker, "it sounds better a sight better besides, I never read a nov-el with a tinker in it as I remember; they're generally dooks, or earls, or barronites nobody wants to read about a tinker." "That all depends," said I; "a tinker may be much more interesting than an earl or even a duke." The Tinker examined the piece of bacon upon his knifepoint with a cold and disparaging eye.
"Lord, Ann!" exclaimed the Tinker, glancing from the piece of ham on his knife point to Diana's stately beauty. "'Tis wonderful what two years can do! You don't need any book of etiquette these days you look so proud, so noble aye, as any duchess in a nov-el or out!
And after he had cleansed the pan to his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger upraised and brow of heavy portent. "Young fellow," said he, "no man can write a good nov-el without he knows summat about love, it aren't to be expected so the sooner you do learn, the better." "Hum!" said I.
So he goes on lookin' an' listenin' an' wonderin' till one day out it has to come an' there's your book. Now you're full up o' love, ain't you?" "Yes, Jerry." "Good! Well, write it down. There's nothing goes better in a nov-el than love, except blood a splash or so here an' there, battle, murder an' sudden death just a tang or so t' season it.
"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.
"So much the better," said the Tinker; "who wants facts in a nov-el?" "Hum!" said I. "And then again " "What more?" I inquired. "Love!" said the Tinker, wiping his knife-blade on the leg of his breeches. "Love?" I repeated. "And plenty of it," said the Tinker. "I'm afraid that is impossible," said I, after a moment's thought. "How impossible?" Because I know nothing about love."
"Tinkering ain't for you, Peregrine, an' you can do better things than swingin' a sledge ah, a sight better!" "What do you suppose I can do?" sighed I miserably. "Paint pictoors!" "Impossible! I shall never be a real painter, Jerry." "Well, then write!" "Impossible! I shall never be a poet, Jerry." "Well, have you ever thought o' writin' a nov-el?" "Never!" "Well, what about it?" "Impossible!
I know, for I used t' sell nov-els once, ah, an' read 'em too! But love's the thing, lad! Everybody loves to read o' love 'specially old codgers, d'ye see gouty old coves as curse their servants, swear at their families and, hid in corners, shed tears over the woes o' the hero an' heroine o' some nov-el an' stub their gouty toe a-kickin' of the villain.
Life's full o' disapp'intments to a romantic soul like me and not half so inter-esting as a good nov-el. Now if you'd only 'appened to be a murderer reeking wi' crime an' blood but you ain't, you tell me?" he questioned, his keen eyes twinkling more brightly than ever. "I am not!" "Why, very well then!" said he, nodding and seating himself upon a small stool.
"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?"
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