“Yonder they go,” said the wheelwright.
“Then there’s summat wrong,” said Dave, taking off his fox-skin cap and scratching his head.
An idea occurred to him, and he ran to his coat.
“Hah!” he ejaculated in a voice that sounded like a saw cutting wood and coming upon a nail; “keep back, Chip! Here, Chip, boy; Chip! They’ve throwed in my powder-horn.”
“Eh!” cried the wheelwright.
Pop! went the horn with a feeble report, consequent upon there being only about a couple of charges of powder left; but it was enough to scatter the embers in all directions, and for a few moments all stood staring at the smoking wood in the midst of which lay the great iron tire, rapidly turning black.
Dave was the first to recover himself.
“Come on,” he shouted, and, pincers in hand, he seized the heated ring, the wheelwright followed suit, the apprentice joined, and lifting the glowing iron it was soon being hammered into its place round the smoking wheel, the soft metal bending and yielding, and burning its way till, amidst the blinding smoke, it was well home and cooling and shrinking, this part of the business being rapidly concluded by means of buckets of water brought by Jacob, and passed along the edge of the wheel.
“I say, Tom, it wasn’t half a bang,” said Dick as the two lads ran towards home with the wind whistling by their ears.
“No,” was the panted-out reply; “but I say, what will old Dave say?”