"Just so,— why, back in Bishop, it might take half the night to find an excuse to clash someone i' the Face, whilst in London, Eeh! 'tis the Par?adise of the Quarrelsome, for fair."
"You'd appreciate Wapping High Street, then,— and, and Tyburn, of course! put that on your list."
"Alluring out there, is it?"
Mason explains, though without his precise reason for it, that, for the past Year or more, it has been his practice to attend the Friday Hangings at that melancholy place, where he is soon chatting up Hangmen and their 'Prentices, whilst standing them pints at their Local, The Bridport Dagger, acquiring thus a certain grisly intimacy with the Art. Mason has been shov'd about and borne along in riots of sailors attempting to wrest from bands of Medical Students the bodies of Shipmates come to grief ashore, too far from the safety of the Sea,— and he's had his Purse, as his Person, assaulted by Agents public and private,— yet, "There's nothing like it, it's London at its purest," he cries. "You must come out there with me, soon as we may."
Taking it for the joke it must surely be, Dixon laughs, "Ha, ha, ha! Oh, thah's a bonny one, all right. Eeh."
Mason shrugging, palms up, "I'm serious. Worse than that, I'm sober. A man's first time in town, he simply can't miss a hanging. Come, Sir,— what's the first thing they'll ask when you get back to County Durham? Eh? 'Did ye see them rahde the Eeahr at Taahburn?''
Is it too many nights alone on top of that fam'd Hill in Greenwich? can this man, living in one of the great Cities of Christendom, not know how to behave around people?— Dixon decides to register only annoyance. "Nooah, the first thing they'll ask is, 'Did thoo understand 'em the weeay theey talk, down theere... ?''
"Oh, damme, I say, I didn't mean,—
So Dixon for the second time in two minutes finds himself laughing without the Motrix of honest Mirth,— this time, a Mr. Mason-how-you-do-go-on laugh, sidewise and forbearing, the laugh of a hired Foil. Feel?ing it his Duty to set them at Ease, Dixon begins, "Well. There's this Jesuit, this Corsican, and this Chinaman, and they're all riding in a greeat Cooach, going up to Bath...? and the fourth Passenger is a very proper Englishwoman, who keeps giving them these scandaliz'd Glances...? Finally, able to bear it no longer, the Corsican, being the most hot-headed of the three, bursts out, and here I hope You will excuse my Corsican Accent, he says, ' 'Ey! Lady! Whatta Ye lookin' ah'?' And she says,—
Mason has been edging away. "Are you crazy?" he whispers, "- - Peo?ple are staring. Sailors are staring."
"Eeh!" Dixon's nose throbbing redly. "You have heard it, then. Apolo?gies," reaching to clasp Mason's arm, a gesture Mason retreats from in a Flinch as free of deliberation as a Sneeze. Dixon withdrawing, broken into a Sweat, "Why aye, it took me weeks of study to fathom that one, but I see You've a brisk Brain in Your gourd there, and I'm pleas'd to be working with such as it be...?" Resolutely a-beam, pronouncing the forms of You consciously, as if borrowing them from another Tongue.
The two sit staring, one at the other, each with a greatly mistaken impression,— likewise in some Uncertainty as to how the power may come to be sorted out betwixt 'em. Dixon is a couple of inches taller, sloping more than towering, wearing a red coat of military cut, with bro?cade and silver buttons, and a matching red three-corner'd Hat with some gaudy North-Road Cockade stuck in it. He will be first to catch the average Eye, often causing future strangers to remember them as Dixon and Mason. But the Uniform accords with neither his Quaker Profession, nor his present Bearing,— a civilian Slouch grown lop-sided, too often observ'd, alas, in Devotees of the Taproom.
For Dixon's part, he seems disappointed in Mason,— or so the Astronomer, ever inclined to suspicion, fears. "What is it? What are you looking at? It's my Wig, isn't it."
"You're not wearing a Wig...?"
"Just so! you noted that,— you have been observing me in a strange yet, I must conclude, meaningful way."
"Don't know...? Happen I was expecting someone a bit more...odd...?"
Mason a-squint, "I'm not odd enough for you?"
"Well it is a peculiar station in Life, isn't it? How many Royal Astronomers are there? How many Royal Astronomers' Assistants are there likely to be? Takes an odd bird to stay up peering at Stars all night
 in the first place, doesn't it... ? On the other hand, Surveyors are runnin' about numerous as Bed-bugs, and twice as cheap, with work enough for all certainly in Durham at present, Enclosures all over the County, and North Yorkshire,— eeh.' Fences, Hedges, Ditches ordinary and Ha-Ha Style, all to be laid out.. .1 could have stay'd home and had m'self a fine Living...?"
"They did mention a Background in Land-Surveying," Mason in some Surprize, "but, but that's it? Hedges? Ha-Has?"
"Well, actually the Durham Ha-Ha boom subsided a bit after Lord Lambton fell into his, curs'd it, had it fill'd in with coal-spoil. Why, did You think I was another Lens-fellow? 0 Lord no,— I mean I've been taught the lot, Celestial Mechanics, all the weighty lads, Laplace and Kepler, Aristarchus, the other fellow what's his name,— but that's all Trigonometry, isn't it... ?"
"Yet you,— " how shall he put this tactfully? "you have look'd... ehm... through a...ehm..."
Dixon smiles at him encouragingly. "Why aye,— my old Teacher, Mr. Emerson, has a fine Telescope Ah believe the word is, encas'd in Barrel-Staves tho' it be, and many's the Evening I've admir'd the Phases of Venus, aye those and the Moons of Jupiter too, the Mountains and Craters of our own Moon,— and did You see thah' latest Eclipse...? canny,— eeh...Mr. Bird, as well, has shar'd his Instruments,— being kind enough, in fact, just in this last fortnight, to help me practice my observing and computing skills,— tho' so mercilessly that I was in some doubt for days, whether we'd parted friends...?"
Mason, having expected some shambling wild Country Fool, remains amiably puzzl'd before the tidied Dixon here presented,— who, for his own part, having despite talk of Oddity expected but another over?dress'd London climber, is amus'd at Mason's nearly invisible Turn-out, all in Snuffs and Buffs and Grays.
Mason is nodding glumly. "I must seem an Ass."
"If this is as bad as it gets, why I can abide thah'. As long as the Spir?its don't run out."
"Nor the Wine."
"Wine." Dixon is now the one squinting. Mason wonders what he's done this time. " 'Grape or Grain, but ne'er the Twain,' as me Great- Uncle George observ'd to me more than once,— 'Vine with Corn, beware the Morn.' Of the two sorts of drinking Folk this implies, than' is, Grape People and Grain People, You will now inform rne of Your membership in the Brotherhood of the, eeh, Grape...? and that You seldom, if ever, touch Ale or Spirits, am I correct?"
"Happily so, I should imagine, as, given a finite Supply, there'd be more for each of us, it's like Jack Sprat, isn't it."
"Oh, I'll drink Wine if I must...?— and now we're enter'd upon the Topick,— "
"— and as we are in Portsmouth, after all,— there cannot lie too dis?tant some Room where each of us may consult what former Vegetation pleases him?"
Dixon looks outside at the ebbing wintry sunlight. "Nor too early, I guess...?"
"We're sailing to the Indies,— Heaven knows what's available on Board, or out there. It may be our last chance for civiliz'd Drink."
"Sooner we start, the better, in thah' case...?"
As the day darkens, and the first Flames appear, sometimes reflected as well in Panes of Glass, the sounds of the Stables and the Alleys grow louder, and chimney-smoke perambulates into the Christmastide air. The Room puts on its Evening-Cloak of shifting amber Light, and sinu?ous Folds of Shadow. Mason and Dixon become aware of a jostling Mur?mur of Expectancy.
All at once, out of the Murk, a dozen mirror'd Lanthorns have leapt alight together, as into their Glare now strolls a somewhat dishevel'd Norfolk Terrier, with a raffish Gleam in its eye,— whilst from some?where less illuminate comes a sprightly Overture upon Horn, Clarinet, and Cello, in time to which the Dog steps back and forth in his bright Ambit.
Ask me anything you please, The Learned English Dog am I, well-Up on ev'rything from Fleas Unto the King's Mon-og-am-eye,
Persian Princes, Polish Blintzes, Chinamen's Geo-mancy,—
 Jump-ing Beans or Flying Machines, Just as it suits your Fan-cy.
I quote enough of the Classickal Stuff To set your Ears a-throb, Work logarith-mick Versed Sines Withal, within me Nob, - Only nothing Ministerial, please, Or I'm apt to lose m' Job, As, the Learned English Dog, to-ni-ight!
There are the usual Requests. Does the Dog know "Where the Bee Sucks"? What is the Integral of One over (Book) d (Book)? Is he mar?ried? Dixon notes how his co-Adjutor-to-be seems fallen into a sort of Magnetickal Stupor, as Mesmerites might term it. More than once, Mason looks ready to leap to his feet and blurt something better kept till later in the Evening. At last the Dog recognizes him, tho' now he is too key'd up to speak with any Coherence. After allowing him to rattle for a full minute, the Dog sighs deeply. "See me later, out in back."
"It shouldn't take but a moment," Mason tells Dixon. "I'll be all right by myself, if there's something you'd rather be doing...."
With no appetite for the giant Mutton Chop cooling in front of him, Mason mopishly now wraps it and stows it in his Coat. Looking up, he notes Dixon, mouth cheerfully stuff'd, beaming too tolerantly for his Comfort.
"No,— not for me,— did you think I was taking it for myself?— 'tis for the Learned Dog, rather,— like, I don't know, perhaps a Bouquet sent to an Actress one admires, a nice Chop can never go too far off the Mark."
Starting a beat late, "Why aye, 'tis a...a great World, for fair...? and Practices vary, and one Man certainly may not comment upon—
"What...are you saying?"
Dixon ingenuously waving his Joint, eyes round as Pistoles. "No Offense, Sir." Rolling his Eyes the Moment Mason switches his Stare away, then back a bit late to catch them so much as off-Center.
"Dixon. Why mayn't there be Oracles, for us, in our time? Gate-ways to Futurity? That can't all have died with the ancient Peoples. Isn't it worth looking ridiculous, at least to investigate this English Dog, for its obvious bearing upon Metempsychosis if nought else,—