The Tinker was a stout swarthy fellow, jovial and musical withal, for he
was singing a stave as he flourished his staff, and at the end of each
_refrain_ down came the staff on the quarters of the donkey. The tinker
went behind and sung, the donkey went before and was thwacked.
“Yours is a droll country,” quoth Dr. Riccabocca; “in mine it is not the
ass that walks first in the procession, who gets the blows.”
The Parson jumped from the stile, and, looking over the hedge that divided
the field from the road—“Gently, gently,” said he; “the sound of the stick
spoils the singing! O Mr. Sprott, Mr. Sprott! a good man is merciful to
his beast.”
The donkey seemed to recognize the voice of its friend, for it stopped
short, pricked one ear wistfully, and looked up.
The Tinker touched his hat, and looked up too. “Lord bless your reverence!
he does not mind it, he likes it. I vould not hurt thee; vould I, Neddy?”
The donkey shook his head and shivered; perhaps a fly had settled on the
sore, which the chestnut leaves no longer protected.
“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him, Sprott,” said the Parson, more
politely, I fear, than honesty—for he had seen enough of that
cross-grained thing called the human heart, even in the little world of a
country parish, to know that it requires management, and coaxing, and
flattering, to interfere successfully between a man and his own donkey—“I
am sure you did not mean to hurt him; but he has already got a sore on his
shoulder as big as my hand, poor thing!”
“Lord love ’un! yes; that vas done a playing with the manger, the day I
gave ’un oats!” said the Tinker.
Dr. Riccabocca adjusted his spectacles, and surveyed the ass. The ass
pricked up his other ear, and surveyed Dr. Riccabocca. In that mutual
survey of physical qualifications, each being regarded according to the
average symmetry of its species, it may be doubted whether the advantage
was on the side of the philosopher.
The Parson had a great notion of the wisdom of his friend, in all matters
not immediately ecclesiastical.
“Say a good word for the donkey!” whispered he.
“Sir,” said the Doctor, addressing Mr. Sprott, with a respectful
salutation, “there’s a great kettle at my house—the Casino—which wants
soldering: can you recommend me a Tinker?”
“Why, that’s all in my line,” said Sprott, “and there ben’t a Tinker in
the country that I vould recommend like myself, thof I say it.”
“You jest, good sir,” said the Doctor, smiling pleasantly. “A man who
can’t mend a hole in his own donkey, can never demean himself by patching
up my great kettle.”
“Lord, sir!” said the Tinker, archly, “if I had known that poor Neddy had
had two sitch friends in court, I’d have seen he was a gintleman, and
treated him as sitch.”
“_Corpo di Bacco_.” quoth the Doctor, “though that jest’s not new, I think
the Tinker comes very well out of it.”
“True; but the donkey!” said the Parson, “I’ve a great mind to buy it.”
“Permit me to tell you an anecdote in point,” said Dr. Riccabocca.
“Well?” said the Parson, interrogatively.
“Once in a time,” pursued Riccabocca, “the Emperor Adrian, going to the
public baths, saw an old soldier, who had served under him, rubbing his
back against the marble wall. The emperor, who was a wise, and therefore a
curious, inquisitive man, sent for the soldier, and asked him why he
resorted to that sort of friction. ‘Because,’ answered the veteran, ‘I am
too poor to have slaves to rub me down.’ The emperor was touched, and gave
him slaves and money. The next day, when Adrian went to the baths, all the
old men in the city were to be seen rubbing themselves against the marble
as hard as they could. The emperor sent for them, and asked them the same
question which he had put to the soldier; the cunning old rogues, of
course, made the same answer. ‘Friends,’ said Adrian, ‘since there are so
many of you, you will just rub one another!’ Mr. Dale, if you don’t want
to have all the donkeys in the county with holes in their shoulders, you
had better not buy the Tinker’s!”
“It is the hardest thing in the world to do the least bit of good,”
groaned the Parson, as he broke a twig off the hedge nervously, snapped it
in two, and flung the fragments on the road—one of them hit the donkey on
the nose. If the ass could have spoken Latin, he would have said, “_Et tu,
Brute!_” As it was, he hung down his ears, and walked on.
“Gee hup,” said the Tinker, and he followed the ass. Then stopping, he
looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the Parson’s eyes were gazing
mournfully on his _protégé_, “Never fear, your reverence,” cried the
Tinker kindly; “I’ll not spite ’un.”