“Give thee good den, smith! Dost know the road to Dunchurch?”
Bennet Leeson took off his leather cap, and scratched his head, as if it were necessary to clear a path to his brains before the question could penetrate so far.
“Well, I reckon I do, when ’tis wanted. What o’ that?”
“Wilt guide me thither?”
“What, this even?”
“Ay, now.”
Bennet’s cap came off again, and he repeated the clearing process on the other side of his head.
“I will content thee well for it,” said the stranger: “but make up thy mind, for time presseth.”
A dulcet vision of silver shillings—of which no great number usually came his way—floated before the charmed eyes of the blacksmith.
“Well, I shouldn’t mind if I did. Tarry while I get my horse.”