ols nowadays,--not even that thar leetle hammer o' his'n. An'
I'm obleeged ter hev that thar leetle hammer an' some nails ter fix a
box fur them young squir'ls what we cotched. So we'll jes' hev ter go
ter his shop of a night when he is away, an'--an'--an' borry it!"

The blacksmith, a tall, powerfully built man, of an aspect far from
jocular, leaned slightly out of the door, peering in the direction where
the three tow-headed urchins waited. Then he glanced within at a leather
strap, as if he appreciated the appropriateness of an intimate relation
between these objects. But there was no time for pleasure now. He was
back in his shop in a moment.

His next respite was thus entertained:--

"What makes him work so of a night?" asked Jim Gryce.

"Waal," explained Ab in his usual high key, "he rid ter the settle_mint_
this mornin'; he hev been a-foolin' round thar all day, an' the crap air
jes' a-sufferin' fur work! So him an' Uncle Tobe air layin' thar ploughs
in the shop now, kase they air goin' ter run around the corn
ter-morrer. Workin', though, goes powerful hard with dad enny time. I
tole old Bob Peachin that, when I war ter the mill this evenin'. Him an'
the t'other men thar laffed mightily at dad. An' I laffed too!"

There was an angry gleam in Stephen Ryder's stern black eyes as he
turned within, seized the tongs, and thrust a piece of iron among the
coals, while Tobe, who had been asleep in the window at the back of the
shop, rose reluctantly and plied the bellows. The heavy panting broke
forth simultaneously with the red flare that quivered out into the dark
night. Presently it faded; the hot iron was whisked upon the anvil,
fiery sparks showered about as the rapid blows fell, and the echoing
crags kept time with rhythmic beats to the clanking of the sledge and
the clinking of the hand-hammer. The stars, high above the
far-stretching mountains, seemed to throb in unison, until suddenly the
blacksmith dealt a sharp blow on the face of the anvil as a signal to
his striker to cease, and the forge was silent.

As he leaned against the jamb of the door, mechanically adjusting his
leather apron, he heard Ab's voice again.

"Old Bob say he ain't no 'count sca'cely. He 'lowed ez he had knowed him
many a year, an' fund him a sneakin', deceivin' critter."

The blacksmith was erect in a moment, every fibre tense.

"That ain't the wust," Ab gabbled on. "Old Bob say, though't ain't known
ginerally, ez he air gin ter