cheese on the flat of his knife-blade, "lastly theer's his clothes,
an', as I've read somewhere, 'clothes make the man'--werry
good--chuck in dignity an' theer's your gentleman!"

"Hum," said Barnabas, profoundly thoughtful.

"An' a gentleman's clothes is a world o' trouble and anxiety to him,
and takes up most o' his time, what wi' his walking breeches an'
riding breeches an' breeches for dancing; what wi' his coats cut
'igh an' his coats cut low; what wi' his flowered satin weskits;
what wi' his boots an' his gloves, an' his cravats an' his 'ats, why,
Lord love ye, he passes his days getting out o' one suit of clothes
an' into another. And it's just this clothes part as I can't nowise
put up wi', for I'm one as loves a easy life, I am."

"And is your life so easy?" inquired Barnabas, eyeing the very small
Chapman's very large pack.

"Why, to be sure theer's easier," the Chapman admitted, scratching
his ear and frowning; "but then," and here his brow cleared again,
"I've only got this one single suit of clothes to bother my 'ead over,
which, being wore out as you can see, don't bother me at all."

"Then are you satisfied to be as you are?"

"Well," answered the Chapman, clinking the five shillings in his
pocket, "I aren't one to grumble at fate, nor yet growl at fortun'."

"Why, then," said Barnabas, "I wish you good morning."