wink meant to be a summary of profound knowledge of the universal fallibility of the human race.

But Mr. Tinker was not a man to be winked at or joked with, nor apparently was he disposed to discuss the tempting topic of man’s—and woman’s—depravity—with a Workhouse Master, the sole audience a Workhouse foundling.

“Pinder,”—he said musingly, strumming meditatively on the table, and somewhat brusquely declining the Master’s hospitable offer to have in another jug of October ale, or something shorter if a cordial for the stomach would be more acceptable.—“Pinder—Tom Pinder? it isn’t a this country name. There was a Pinder at Marsden, a clothier in a small way—took to drink, banked, and showed his creditors a clean pair of heels; but you wouldn’t have a Marsden brat in this Union.”

“But he wasn’t called after his father,” said the Master, somewhat curtly, for if Jabez Tinker could be curt, curt too could the Master be, and any way, he was sovereign there except on Guardian days. “Damme, I can crow on my own dunghill,” he thought, “or I’m th’ poorest cock ever crowed this side of Stanedge.”

“Oh! I forgot, Mr. Redfearn said something about his being a bastard, a chance child—a rambling tale. I didn’t mind it, I was thinking about something else. ’Twill be his mother’s name?”

“No, nor his mother’s,” said the Master. “I don’t rightly know who he was called after. It had something to do with Mr. Redfearn’s shepherd. But it’s a long time since, and I forget. But what’s the odds? There th’ lad is. You can either take him or leave him, it’s all a price to me, and I reckon to th’ Guardians too.”

“When can he come?”

“Next week. There’ll be th’ papers to make out. Th’ overseers will sign th’ indentire. Five pounds they’ve to pay, I think t’was settled.”

“Yes, five Pounds; but if I’d known his age and size I’d have stood out for more. But it’s too late for haggling you’d send him over this day week. I’ll arrange about him. Tell him to bring the cob round, Tom, and so good day to you, Master. Time’s money these days, and I’ve wasted a whole forenoon over this job. Pinder, Pinder, it’s a strange name and yet there seems a look i’ the lad’s eye I’ve seen before somewhere. My respects to Mr. Redfearn when you see him, and tell him he should be too old a farmer by this to keep his cattle till they’re almost too far gone for the market.”

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