go down better with a bit of victuals. Don't ye chaw quite close, shepherd, for I let the bacon fall in the road outside as I was bringing it along, and may be 'tis rather gritty. There, 'tis clane dirt; and we all know what that is, as you say, and you bain't a particular man we see, shepherd."
"True, true—not at all," said the friendly Oak.
"Don't let yer teeth quite meet, and you won't feel the sandiness at all. Ah! 'tis wonderful what can be done by contrivance!"
"My own mind exactly, neighbour."
"Ah, he's his grandfer's own grandson!—his grandfer were just such a nice unparticular man!" said the maltster.
"Drink, Henry Fray—drink," magnanimously said Jan Coggan, a person who held SaintSimonian notions of share and share alike where liquor was concerned, as the vessel showed signs of approaching him in its gradual revolution among them.
Having at this moment reached the end of a wistful gaze into mid-air, Henry did not refuse. He was a man of more than middle age, with eyebrows high up in his forehead, who laid it down that the law of the world was bad, with a longsuffering look through his listeners at the world alluded to, as it presented itself to his imagination. He always signed his name "Henery"—strenu-
