"Nay--never despond, friend!" quoth the Tinker, laying his hand on my
bowed shoulder. "For arter all you've got what I ain't got--words! All
you need is to suffer a bit, mind an' body, an' not so much for
yourself as for some one or something else. Nobody can expect to be a
real poet, I think, as hasn't suffered or grieved over summat or some
one! So cheer up; suffering's bound to come t' ye soon or late; 'tis
only to be expected in this world. Meanwhile how are ye going to
live?"
"I haven't thought of it yet."
"Hum! Any money?"
"Only eighteen guineas."
"Why, 'tis a tidy sum! But even eighteen pound can't last for ever,
an' when 'tis all gone--how then?"
"I don't know."
"Hum!" quoth the Tinker again and sat rubbing his chin and staring
into the fire, while I, lost in my new humility, wondered if my
painting was not as futile as my poetry.
"Can ye work?" enquired my companion suddenly.
"I think so!"
"What at?"
"I don't know!"
"Hum! Any trade or profession?"
"None!"
"Ha! too well eddicated, I suppose. Well, 'tis a queer kettle o' fish,
but so's life, yet, though heaviness endure for a night, j'y cometh in
the morning, and mind, I'm your friend if you're so minded. And now,
what I says is--let's to sleep, for I must be early abroad." Here he
reached into the little tent and presently brought thence two
blankets, one of which he proffered me, but the night being very hot
and oppressive, I declined it and presently we were lying side by
side, staring up at the stars.
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