Bradley Headstone’s face had changed during this latter recital, and he had observed the speaker with a more sustained attention.
“Do you know,” said he, after a pause, during which they walked on side by side, “that I believe I could tell you your name, if I tried?”
“Prove your opinion,” was the answer, accompanied with a stop and a stare. “Try.”
“Your name is Riderhood.”
“I’m blest if it ain’t,” returned that gentleman. “But I don’t know your’n.”
“That’s quite another thing,” said Bradley. “I never supposed you did.”
As Bradley walked on meditating, the Rogue walked on at his side muttering. The purport of the muttering was: “that Rogue Riderhood, by George! seemed to be made public property on, now, and that every man seemed to think himself free to handle his name as if it was a Street Pump.” The purport of the meditating was: “Here is an instrument. Can I use it?”