companion. But Jerry Jerk tossed off the pannikin of rum, clambered on the high stool behind the bar, and leaned across the counter, fixing Denis with a glance full of meaning.
"Mister Cobtree," he whispered fearfully, "you are older than I am, but I feel somehow as if I can give you a point or two, because you've got sense. I'm a man of Kent, I am, and I'm going to be a hangman sooner or later, but above all I belongs to the Marsh and understands her, and them as understands the Marsh—well, the Marsh understands them, and this is what she says to them as understands her: 'Hide yourself like I do under the green, until you feels you're ready to be real mud'. I takes her advice, I do; I'm under the green, I am, but I can be patient, because I knows as how some day I'll be real dirt. You can't be real dirt all at once; so keep green till you can; and if I has to keep green for years and years, I'll get to mud one day, and that'll be the day to hang that Rash and cheat old Mipps of his body." And to encourage himself in this resolve Jerry took another thimbleful of rum.
"I'm afraid I don't follow you," said Denis.
"Don't try to," replied the youngster, "don't try to. You'll get it in time. The Marsh'll show you. She takes her own time, but she'll get you out of the green some day and ooze you up through the sluices, and then you'll be a man of Kent, and no mistaking you."
Denis, not able to make head or tail of this effusion,
