The blacksmith gives Clare and Tommy a rough greeting.
“But it’s a splendid fire,” rejoined Clare, looking into his face with a wan smile, “and we’re so cold!”
“What’s that to me!” returned the man, who, savage about something, was ready to quarrel with anything. “I didn’t make my fire to warm little devils that better had never been born!”
“No, sir,” answered Clare; “but I don’t think we’d better not have been born. We’re both cold, and nobody but Tommy knows how hungry I am; but your fire is so beautiful that, if you would let us stand beside it a minute or two, we wouldn’t at all mind.”
“Mind, indeed! Mind what, you preaching little humbug?”
“Mind being born, sir.”
“Why do you say sir to me? Don’t you see I’m a working man?”
“Yes, and that’s why. I think we ought to say sir and ma’am to every one that can do something we can’t. Tommy and I can’t make iron do what we please, and you can, sir! It would be a grand thing for us if we could!”
“Oh, yes, a grand thing, no doubt!—Why?”