gun, and throw your bearskins in a sailor's hornpipe—I holding your watch. What do you say?"
At this proposition the other was himself again, all raccoon.
"Look you," thumping down his rifle, "are you Jeremy Diddler No. 3?"
"Jeremy Diddler? I have have heard of Jeremy the prophet, and Jeremy Taylor the divine, but your other Jeremy is a gentleman I am unacquainted with."
"You are his confidential clerk, ain't you?"
"Whose, pray? Not that I think myself unworthy of being confided in, but I don't understand."
"You are another of them. Somehow I meet with the most extraordinary metaphysical scamps to-day. Sort of visitation of them. And yet that herb-doctor Diddler somehow takes off the raw edge of the Diddlers that come after him."
"Herb-doctor? who is he?"
"Like you another—of them."
"Who?" Then drawing near, as if for a good long explanatory chat, his left hand spread, and his pipe-stem coming crosswise down upon it like a ferule, "You think amiss of me. Now to undeceive you, I will just enter into a little argument and—"
"No you don't. No more little arguments for me. Had too many little arguments to-day."
"But put a case. Can you deny—I dare you to deny—that the man leading a solitary life is peculiarly exposed to the sorriest misconceptions touching strangers?"
