LITMIR.BIZ

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amused with his imposition, “I should like to accompany you—for, as Josephus says most truly, ‘Capiat pilulae duae post prandium.’ Travel is, indeed, a most delightful occupation, and I would like to run over the whole world.”

      “And I would like to follow you,” interrupted Timothy. “I suspect we have commenced our grand tour already—three miles behind a hackney-coach—ten on foot, and about two, I should think, in this waggon. But as Cophagus says, ‘Cochlearija crash many summendush,’ which means, ‘There are ups and downs in this world.’”

      “Hah!” exclaimed our companion. “He, also, has the rudiments.”

      “Nay, I hope I’ve done with the Rudimans,” replied Timothy.

      “Is he your follower?” inquired the man.

      “That very much depends upon who walks first,” replied Timothy, “but whether or no—we hunt in couples.”

      “I understand—you are companions. ‘Concordat cum nominativo numero et persona.’ Tell me, can you roll pills, can you use the pestle and the mortar, handle the scapula, and mix ingredients?”

      I replied, that of course I knew my profession.

      “Well, then, as we have still some hours of night, let us now obtain some rest. In the morning, when the sun hath introduced us to each other, I may then judge from your countenances whether it is likely that we may be better acquainted. Night is the time for repose, as Quintus Curtius says, ‘Custos, bos, fur atque sacerdos.’ Sleep was made for all—my friends, good night.”

      Part 1—Chapter IX

      In which the Adventures in the Waggon are continued, and we become more puzzled with our new Companions—We leave off talking Latin, and enter into an engagement.

      Timothy and I took his advice, and were soon fast asleep.

      I was awakened the next morning by feeling a hand in my trowser’s pocket. I seized it, and held it fast.

      “Now just let go my hand, will you?” cried a lachrymal voice.

      I jumped up—it was broad daylight, and looked at the human frame to which the hand was an appendix. It was a very spare, awkwardly-built form of a young man, apparently about twenty years old, but without the least sign of manhood on his chin. His face was cadaverous, with large goggling eyes, high cheek bones, hair long and ragged, reminding me of a rat’s nest, thin lips, and ears large almost as an elephant’s. A more woe-begone wretch in appearance I never beheld, and I continued to look at him with surprise. He repeated his words with an idiotical expression, “Just let go my hand, can’t you?”

      “What business had your hand in my pocket?” replied I, angrily.

      “I was feeling for my pocket handkerchief,” replied the young man. “I always keeps it in my breeches’ pocket.”

      “But not in your neighbour’s, I presume?”

      “My neighbour’s!” replied he, with a vacant stare. “Well, so it is, I see now—I thought it was my own.”

      I released his hand; he immediately put it into his own pocket, and drew out his handkerchief, if the rag deserved the appellation.

      “There,” said he, “I told you I put it in that pocket—I always do.”

      “And pray who are you?” said I, as I looked at his dress, which was a pair of loose white Turkish trowsers, and an old spangled jacket.

      “Me! why, I’m the fool.”

      “More knave than fool, I expect,” replied I, still much puzzled with his strange appearance and dress.

      “Nay, there you mistake,” said the voice of last night. “He is not only a fool by profession, but one by nature. It is a half-witted creature, who serves me when I would attract the people. Strange, in this world, that wisdom may cry in the streets without being noticed, yet folly will always command a crowd.”

      During this address I turned my eyes upon the speaker. He was an elderly-looking person, with white hair, dressed in a suit of black, ruffles and frill. His eyes were brilliant, but the remainder of his face it was difficult to decipher, as it was evidently painted, and the night’s jumbling in the waggon had so smeared it, that it appeared of almost every colour in the rainbow. On one side of him lay a large three-cornered cocked hat, on the other, a little lump of a boy, rolled up in the straw like a marmot, and still sound asleep. Timothy looked at me, and when he caught my eye, burst out into a laugh.

      “You laugh at my appearance, I presume,” said the old man, mildly.

      “I do in truth,” replied Timothy. “I never saw one like you before, and I dare say never shall again.”

      “That is possible; yet probably if you meet me again you would not know me.”

      “Among a hundred thousand,” replied Timothy, with increased mirth.

      “We shall see, perhaps,” replied the quack doctor, for such the reader must have already ascertained to be his profession; “but the waggon has stopped, and the driver will bait his horses. If inclined to eat, now is your time. Come, Jumbo, get up; Philotas, waken him, and follow me.”

      Philotas, for so was the fool styled by his master, twisted up some straw, and stuffed the end of it into Jumbo’s mouth. “Now Jumbo will think he has got something to eat. I always wake him that way,” observed the fool, grinning at us.

      It certainly, as might be expected, did waken Jumbo, who uncoiled himself, rubbed his eyes, stared at the tilt of the waggon, then at us, and without saying a word, rolled himself out after the fool. Timothy and I followed. We found the doctor bargaining for some bread and bacon, his strange appearance exciting much amusement, and inducing the people to let him have a better bargain than perhaps otherwise they would have done. He gave a part of the refreshment to the boy and the fool, and walked out of the tap-room with his own share. Timothy and I went to the pump, and had a good refreshing wash, and then for a shilling were permitted to make a very hearty breakfast. The waggon having remained about an hour, the driver gave as notice of his departure; but the doctor was nowhere to be found. After a little delay, the waggoner drove off, cursing him for a bilk, and vowing that he’d never have any more to do with a “lamed man.” In the mean time Timothy and I had taken our seats in the waggon, in company with the fool, and Master Jumbo. We commenced a conversation with the former, and soon found out, as the doctor had asserted, that he really was an idiot, so much so that it was painful to converse with him. As for the latter, he had coiled himself away to take a little more sleep. I forgot to mention, that the boy was dressed much in the same way as the fool, in an old spangled jacket, and dirty white trowsers. For about an hour Timothy and I conversed, remarking upon the strange disappearance of the doctor, especially as he had given us hopes of employing us; in accepting which offer, if ever it should be made, we had not made up our minds, when we were interrupted with a voice crying out, “Hillo, my man, can you give a chap a lift as far as Reading, for a shilling?”

      “Ay, get up, and welcome,” replied the waggoner.

      The waggon did not stop, but in a moment or two the new passenger climbed in. He was dressed in a clean smock frock, neatly worked up the front, leather gaiters, and stout shoes; a bundle and a stick were in his hand. He smiled as he looked round upon the company, and showed a beautiful set of teeth. His face was dark, and sun-burnt, but very handsome, and his eyes as black as coals, and as brilliant as gas. “Heh! player folk—I’ve a notion,” said he, as he sat down, looking at the doctor’s attendants, and laughing at us. “Have you come far, gentlemen?” continued he.

      “From London,” was my reply.

      “How do the crops look up above, for down here the turnips seem to have failed altogether? Dry seasons won’t do for turnips.”

      I replied that I really could not satisfy him on that point, as it was dark when we passed.

      “Very true—I had forgotten that,” replied he. “However, the barleys look well; but perhaps you don’t understand farming?”

      I

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