“That is the secretaries' fault, not mine,” said Henry. “They can't see I've brought a new trade in, that hurts no old trade, and will spread, and bring money into the town.”
“We are not so —— soft as swallow that,” said the bloated smith. “Thou's just come t' Hillsborough to learn forging, and when thou'st mastered that, off to London, and take thy —— trade with thee.”
Henry colored to the brow at the inferior workman's vanity and its concomitant, detraction. But he governed himself, by a mighty effort, and said, “Oh, that's your grievance now, is it? Mr. Cheetham—sir—will you ask some respectable grinder to examine these blades of mine?”
“Certainly. You are right, Little. The man to judge a forger's work is a grinder, and not another forger. Reynolds, just take a look at them, will ye?”
A wet grinder of a thoroughly different type and race from the greyhound, stepped forward. He was thick-set in body, fresh-colored, and of a square manly countenance. He examined the blades carefully, and with great interest.
“Well,” said Henry, “were they forged by a smith, or a novice that is come here to learn anvil work?”
Reynolds did not reply to him, nor to Mr. Cheetham: he turned to the men. “Mates, I'm noane good at lying. Hand that forged these has naught to learn in Hillsbro', nor any other shop.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds,” said Henry, in a choking voice. “That is the first gleam of justice that I—” He could say no more.
“Come, don't you turn soft for a word or two,” said Cheetham. “You'll wear all this out in time. Go to the office. I have something to say to you.”
The something was said. It amounted to this—“Stand by me and I'll stand by you.”