"Are you the blacksmith, sir?" asked Tom.
"Huh? Wal! I should say I was. But I ain't no doctor," snarled the man above, "and I ain't in the habit of answering night calls. Don't ye see I ain't got no night bell? Go away! you're actin' foolish. I don't shoe hosses this time o' night."
"It's not a horse," explained Tom, near laughter despite his serious feelings. "It's a motor-car."
"Naw, I don't shoe no ortermobile, neither!" declared the man, and prepared to close the blind.
"Say, Mister!" shouted Tom. "Do come down. I need you——"
"If I come down thar, I won't come as no blacksmith, nor no mechanic. I'll come as the constable and run ye in—ye plaguey whipper-snapper!"
"All right," cried Tom, fearing he would shut the blind. "Come down as constable. I reckon I need you in that character more than any other."
"I believe ye do!" exclaimed the man, angrily. "If you air there when I git on my pants, you'll take a walk to the callaboose. None o' you young city sports air goin' to disturb the neighborhood like this—not if I know it!"
Meanwhile, Tom could hear him stirring around, tumbling over the chairs in the dark, and growling at his boots, and otherwise showing his anger. But the boy was desperate, and he stood still until the man appeared—tin star pinned to his vest.
"Wal, by gravey!" exclaimed the blacksmith-constable. "Ain't you a reckless youngster ter face up the majesty of the law in this here way?"