'Tis long since I rode a horse,
an' am out o' place in the saddle."
He stood erect with dignity, a smile deepening the many lines in
his face.
"Can I do anything for you?" Allen asked.
"Ay--cure me o' poverty--have ye any clocks to mend?"
"Clocks! Are you a tinker?" said Allen.
"I am, sor, an' at thy service. Could beauty, me lord, have better
commerce than with honesty?"
They all surveyed him with curiosity and amusement as he tied the
mare.
All had begun to laugh. His words came rapidly on a quick
undercurrent of good nature. A clock sounded the stroke of midday.
"What, ho! The clock," said he, looking at his watch. "Thy time
hath a lagging foot, Marry, were I that slow, sor, I'd never get to
Heaven."
"Mother," said Allen, going to the doorstep, "here is a tinker, and
he says the clock is slow."
"It seems to be out of order." said his wife, coming to the step.
"Seems, madam, nay, it is," said the stranger. "Did ye mind the
stroke of it?"
"No," said she.
"Marry, 'twas like the call of a dying man."
Allen thought a moment as he whittled.
"Had I such a stroke on me I'd--I'd think I was parralyzed," the
stranger added.
"You'd better fix it then," said Allen.
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