CHAPTER XV IN WHICH I MEET WITH A PEDLER BY THE NAME OF "GABBING" DICK
"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?"
I sat up, sleepily, and rubbed my eyes. The sun was gone, and the blue sky had changed to a deep purple, set here and there with a quivering star. Yet the light was still strong enough to enable me to distinguish the speaker—a short, thick-set man. Upon his shoulder he carried a bundle of brooms, a pack was slung to his back, while round his neck there dangled a heterogeneous collection of articles—ribbons, laces, tawdry neck chains, and the like; indeed, so smothered was he in his wares that, as he stood there, he had more the aspect of some disordered fancy than of a human being.
"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?" he repeated, in a somewhat melancholy tone.
"No,"
