Of a Meeting near Fulham
that would take a journey even out of Hell to spit upon old Noll’s bones.”
“I misdoubt,” he says, reflecting, “if my father had designed that precise abode for himself. But it may well be he was wrong. For my own part I find, no doubt with yourself, this present world a sufficient exercise for my thoughts—the more so that it has sometimes used me shabbily.”
“What calling may you follow?” I asked. “Well,” he says, with a sly look at me, “’tis scarce one for pride, but an’ you press me I must confess that I have the repute of being a somewhat importunate beggar.”
“What!” says I in an amaze, “are you a wheedler?”
“Ah,” he says thoughtfully, “I believe even that term has been put upon me, but the word has an ugly sound, now I hear it.”
“But,” said I, for his appearance set the lie on his statement, “You speak like a man of quality. I’ll warrant you are no common canter.”
“True,” he said suavely. “I am glad that you have observed that. I endeavour to be
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