But sich is life!' He heaved a deep sigh as he indulged in these reflections, and putting his fingers with an absent air on Hugh's throat, and particularly under his left ear, as if he were studying the anatomical development of that part of his frame, shook his head in a despondent manner and actually shed tears.
'You're a kind of artist, I suppose--eh!' said Mr Tappertit.
'Yes,' rejoined Dennis; 'yes--I may call myself a artist--a fancy workman--art improves natur'-- that's my motto.' 'And what do you call this ?' said Mr Tappertit taking his stick out of his hand.
'That's my portrait atop,' Dennis replied; 'd'ye think it's like ?' 'Why--it's a little too handsome,' said Mr Tappertit.

'Who did it?
You ?' 'I!' repeated Dennis, gazing fondly on his image.

'I wish I had the talent.

That was carved by a friend of mine, as is now no more.

The very day afore he died, he cut that with his pocket-knife from memory! "I'll die game," says my friend, "and my last moments shall be dewoted to making Dennis's picter." That's it.' 'That was a queer fancy, wasn't it ?' said Mr Tappertit.
'It WAS a queer fancy,' rejoined the other, breathing on his fictitious nose, and polishing it with the cuff of his coat, 'but he was a queer subject altogether--a kind of gipsy--one of the finest, stand-up men, you ever see.