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Yes, you said right, ’tis life in the garden of Eden—the tinker’s; I see so now that I’m about to give it up. Myself. Give it up! you must not think of such a thing. Tinker. No, I can’t bear to think of it, and yetl must; what’s to be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be driven off the roads. Myself. Who has driven you off the roads? Tinker. Who! the Flaming Tinman. Myself. Who is he?
What office do you hold? What authority have you? With what right do you come rushing into the four walls of my home? Do you perhaps imagine that your artistic skill invests you with special privileges? I don’t give a tinker’s damn for your art. The whole rubbish is hardly worth spitting on. Music? Idiocy. Who needs it?
Just as he came there, the landlady and an old croney, a tinker’s wife, were standing at the door; as soon as the landlady espied him, she clapped her hands, and swore it was either Mr. Carew or his ghost. As soon as they were convinced he was flesh and blood, great were the kisses, hugs, and embraces, of the three.
Here the tinker’s wife, who for some minutes past had been listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low soft tone: ‘I really don’t see, John, why you shouldn’t sell the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people couldn’t lay the blame on you; but I don’t think any ill will befall him, and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need?’
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