“It’s a trade,” Mundon laconically remarked.
“Then you must be Jack of them all,” said Ben, “for there’s nothing you can’t do.”
“I’ve ben in most of ’em. It’s mean to try to do things when you don’t know how. Sometimes, a job I wasn’t used to would take a powerful long time; though in the first stages, I thought I was workin’ mighty fast—a reg’lar lightnin’-striker.”
“Of course, anything that isn’t regular work takes longer.”
“Exactly. The more you work at a thing, the more skillful you git. Sometimes, when I’d git through with a new worrisome job, I’d wonder what I’d better tackle next. And ’t would always remind me of a story my mother used to tell ’bout a tailor who was a powerful slow worker, but thought he was lightnin’. He took a whole week to make a vest, and then said, ‘What’ll I fly at next?’”
During the following two weeks the partners were very busy. The arastra was finished and the furnace in readiness for the precious metals. Lastly, a pile of soot, brickdust, and mortar, representing a part of the lining of the chimney, and a retort and some quicksilver awaited the trial.
A fairly good sleeping-room, with a tiny galley adjoining, made the place comfortable.
Mundon proved to be a good cook, and Ben was fond of watching him at his culinary labors. The kitchen was constructed like the galley of a ship, and, when the cook was seated, everything was within his reach.
“I’ve been camping out in vacations,” Ben remarked; “but this beats that all to pieces.”