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 the fire. But what you call me pretty lad for, you know best yourself.”

“Thou art a sharp wag at least, if not a pretty one. But what do thy playfellows call thee?”

“Hobgoblin,” answered the boy, readily; “but for all that, I would rather have my own ugly viznomy than any of their jolterheads, that have no more brains in them than a brick-bat.”

“Then you fear not this smith, whom you are going to see?”

“Me fear him!” answered the boy; “if he were the devil folk think him, I would not fear him; but though there is something queer about him, he’s no more a devil than you are, and that’s what I would not tell to every one.”

“And why do you tell it to me, then, my boy?” said Tressilian.

“Because you are another guess gentleman than those we see here every day,” replied Dickie; “and though I am as ugly as sin, I would not have you think me an ass, especially as I may have a boon to ask of you one day.”

“And what is that, my lad, whom I must not call pretty?” replied Tressilian.

“O, if I were to ask it just now,” said the boy, “you would deny it me—but I will wait till we meet at court.”

“At court, Richard! are you bound for court?” said Tressilian.

“Ay, ay, that’s just like the rest of them, replied the boy; “I warrant me you think, what should such an ill-favoured, scrambling urchin do at