“Hang me,” said the other, “but I believe you are like St. Eloi, our patron saint, master among the master-workmen.”
“Are you one of us?”
“Akin, my boy: I am a gunsmith. All smiths are brothers. This is a sample of my work.”
The locksmith took the gun from the speaker’s hands, examined it with attention, clicked the hammers and approved with a nod of the sharp action of the lock: but spying the name on the plate, he said:
“Leclere? this won’t do, friend, for Leclere is scanty thirty, and we are both a good forty, without meaning to hurt your feelings.”
“Quite true, I am not Leclere, but it is the same thing, only a little more so. For I am his master.”
“Oh, capital!” chuckled the locksmith; “it is the same as my saying ‘I am not the King but I am the same thing, only more so, as I am his master.'”
“Oho,” said the other rising and burlesquing the military salute, “have I the honor of addressing Master Gamain, the King of Locksmiths?”
“Himself in person, and delighted if he can do anything for you,” replied Gamain, enchanted at the effect his name had produced.
“The devil! I had no idea I was talking to one of the high flyers in our line,” said the other. “A man so well considered.”