with them again.

CHAPTER III

Jim the Blacksmith

The village of Brammerton seemed only half awake. A rumbling cart was
slowly wending its way up the hill, three or four old men were standing
yarning at the inn corner; now and again, a busy housewife would appear
at her door and take a glimpse of what little was going on and
disappear inside just as quickly as she had shown herself. The sound
of the droning voices of children conning their lessons came through
the open window of the old schoolhouse.

These were the only signs and sounds of life that forenoon in
Brammerton. Stay!--there was yet another. Breaking in on the general
quiet of the place, I could hear distinctly the regular thud of hard
steel on soft, followed by the clear double-ring of a small hammer on a
mellow-toned anvil.

One man, at any rate, was hard at work,--Jim Darrol,--big, honest,
serious giant that he was.

Light of heart and buoyant in body, I turned down toward the smithy. I
looked in through the grimy, broken window and admired the brawny giant
he looked there in the glare of the furnace, with his broad back to me,
his huge arms bared to the shoulders. Little wonder, thought I, Jim
Darrol can whirl the hammer and put the shot farther than any man in
the Northern Counties.

How the muscles bulged, and wriggled, and crawled under his dark, hairy
skin! What a picture of manliness he portrayed! And, best of all,--I
knew his heart was as good and clean as his body was sound.

I tiptoed cautiously inside and slapped him between the shoulders. He
wheeled about quickly. He always was a solemn-looking owl, but this
morning his face was clouded and grim. As he recognised me, a terrible
anger seemed to blaze up in his black eyes. I could see the muscles
tighten in his arms and his fingers close firmly over the shaft of the
hammer he held. I could see a new-born, but fierce hatred burning in
every inch of his enormous frame.

"Hello, Jim, old man! Who has been rubbing you the wrong way?" I cried.

His jaws set. He raised his left hand and pointed with his finger to
the open doorway.

"Get out!" he growled, in a deep, hoarse voice.

I stood dumbfounded for a brief moment, then I replied roughly and
familiarly: "Oh, you go to the devil! Keep your anger for those who
have caused it."

"Get out, will you!" he cried again, taking a step nearer to me, his
brows lowered, his lips drawn to a thin line.

I had seen these