“No,” answered Clare, with an odd doubtfulness in his tone. “I ought to say yes, perhaps, for all men are my brothers; but I mean I haven’t any particular one of my very own.”
“That ain’t no pity; he’d ha’ been no better than you. I’ve a brother I would choke any minute I got a chance.”
While they talked, the blacksmith had put his iron in the fire, and again stood blowing the bellows, when his attention was caught by the gestures of the little red-eyed imp, Tommy, who was making rapid signs to him, touching his forehead with one finger, nodding mysteriously, and pointing at Clare with the thumb of his other hand, held close to his side. He sought to indicate thus that his companion was an innocent, whom nobody must mind. In the blacksmith Tommy saw one of his own sort, and the blacksmith saw neither in Tommy nor in Clare any reason to doubt the hint given him. Not the less was he inclined to draw out the idiot.
“Why do you let him follow you about, if he ain’t your brother?” he said. “He ain’t nice to look at!”
“I want to make him nice,” answered Clare, “and then he’ll be nice to look at. You mustn’t mind him, please, sir. He’s a very little boy, and ain’t been well brought up. His granny ain’t a good woman—at least not very, you know, Tommy!” he added apologetically.
“She’s a damned old sinner!” said Tommy stoutly.
The man laughed.
“Ha, ha, my chicken! you know a thing or two!” he said, as he took his iron from the fire, and laid it again on the anvil.
But besides the brother he would so gladly strangle, there was an idiot one whom he had loved a little and teazed so much, that, when he died, his conscience was moved. He felt therefore a little tender toward the idiot before him. He bethought himself also that his job would soon be at a stage where the fewer the witnesses the better, for he was executing a commission for certain burglars of his acquaintance. He would do no more that night! He had money in his pocket, and he wanted a drink!
“Look here, cubs!” he said; “if you ain’t got nowhere to go to, I don’t mind if you sleep here. There ain’t no bed but the bed of the forge, nor no blankets but this leather apron: you may have them, for you can’t do them no sort of harm. I don’t mind neither if you put a shovelful of slack and a little water now and then on the fire; and if you give it a blow or two with the bellows now and then, you won’t be stone-dead afore the mornin’!—Don’t be too free with the coals, now, and don’t set the shed on fire, and take the bread out of my poor innocent mouth. Mind what I tell you, and be good boys.”