Old kettles to mend! Vy, you makes me forgit the Sabbath! Sarvent, my lad, and wish you well out of it; 'specks to your mother, and say we can deal for the pan and shovel all the same for your misfortin." The tinker went his way.

Lenny's eye followed him with the sullenness of despair.

The tinker, like all the tribe of human comforters, had only watered the brambles to invigorate the prick of the horns.

Yes, if Lenny had been caught breaking the stocks, some at least would have pitied him; but to be incarcerated for defending them! You might as well have expected that the widows and orphans of the Reign of Terror would have pitied Dr.Guillotin when he slid through the grooves of his own deadly machine.

And even the tinker, itinerant, ragamuffin vagabond as he was, felt ashamed to be found with the pattern boy! Lenny's head sank again on his breast heavily, as if it had been of lead.