I paused. The schoolmaster said nothing. He was leaning over the well, gloomily examining the pins.
"--your aspect was enough to scare anyone," I wound up lamely.
"I wish," the schoolmaster hastily began, "I wish to Heaven I had the gift of humour! I lose my temper and grow positive. I'd kill these stupid superstitions with ridicule, if I had the gift. It's a great gift. My God, I do hate to be laughed at!"
"Even by a fool?" I asked, somewhat astonished at his heat.
"Certainly. There's no comfort in comparing the laugh of fools with the crackling of thorns under a pot, if you happen to be inside the pot and in process of cooking."
He took off his hat, brushed it on the sleeve of his coat, and resumed in a tone altogether lighter--
"Yes, I hate to be laughed at; and I'll tell you a tale on this point that may amuse you at my expense.
"I am London-bred, as you know, and still a Cockney in the grain, though when I came
