He saw the tinker stroking a white cat, and appealing to her, every now and then, as his missus, for an opinion or a confirmation; and he thought that a curious sight.

Speed-the-Plough was stretched at full length, with his boots in the rain, and his head amidst the tinker's pots, smoking, profoundly contemplative.

The minutes seemed to be taken up alternately by the grey puffs from their mouths.
It was the tinker who renewed the colloquy.

Said he, "Times is bad!" His companion assented, "Sure-ly!" "But it somehow comes round right," resumed the tinker.

"Why, look here.
Where's the good o' moping?
I sees it all come round right and tight.
Now I travels about.