The giants looked around. There were hundreds of roofs, but they were all just alike,—some larger, to be sure, and some smaller, but all steep, red-tiled, and peaked, with a great chimney-pot above. Herr Klinkerklanker’s might be one, and it might be another. There was not the least way of telling.
“We must ask some one,” said Grossmund.
But there was no one to ask. Every soul was safely locked indoors.
So the giants considered. They thought and thought, and looked and looked here and there among the silent streets of the town. Suddenly Grosshand pointed. Not a step away, a small bright flame shot up between two houses. It seemed to come from an iron table. Grossmund was nearest. He bent down, picked up the iron with his thumb and forefinger and blew out the fire.
Then Grosskopf had a thought. “Herr Klinkerklanker’s forge!” he said.
Grossmund put the thing down. Then he bent over the red-roofed house beside it. He put his lips to the chimney and whistled.
“Herr Klinkerklanker! Herr Klinkerklanker!” he called as softly as he knew how.
The windows rattled and the door quivered; but there was no answer.