Tom touched his hat, and began to think what he ought to say. "Houts!"
says the thing again, "thou needn't be feared o' me; thou 'st done me a
better turn than thou know'st, my lad, and I'll do as much for thee."
Tom couldn't speak yet, but he thought; "Lord! for sure 't is a bogle!"
"No!" says he as quick as quick, "I am no bogle, but ye 'd best not ask
me what I be; anyways I be a good friend o' thine." Tom's very
knee-bones struck, for certainly an ordinary body couldn't have known
what he'd been thinking to himself, but he looked so kind like, and
spoke so fair, that he made bold to get out, a bit quavery like--
"Might I be axing to know your honour's name?"
"H'm," says he, pulling his beard; "as for that"--and he thought a
bit--"ay so," he went on at last, "Yallery Brown thou mayst call me,
Yallery Brown; 't is my nature seest thou, and as for a name 't will do
as any other. Yallery Brown, Tom, Yallery Brown's thy friend, my lad."
"Thankee, master," says Tom, quite meek like.
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