Tell me what's my name; if you can't, may I--" _Myself_ .-- Don't swear, it's a bad habit, neither pleasant nor profitable.

Your name is Slingsby--Jack Slingsby.

There, don't stare, there's nothing in my telling you your name: I've been in these parts before, at least not very far from here.

Ten years ago, when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles from here in a post chaise, at the door of an inn, and as I looked from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter, with a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack Slingsby.

I never forget anything I hear or see; I can't, I wish I could.