“You are not forging those hand-bills according to pattern, my man,” said Uncle Jack, as he saw one finished, Pannell beating the steel with savage vehemence, and seeming as if he wished it were Uncle Jack’s head.
“That’s way to forge a hand-bill,” said the man sourly.
“Your way,” said Uncle Jack quietly. “Not mine. I gave you a pattern. These are being made of a new steel.”
“Good for nought,” said the man; but Uncle Jack paid no heed, assuming not to have heard the remark.
“And I want them to look different to other people’s.”
“Do it yoursen then,” said the great fellow savagely; and he threw down the hammer and pincers.
“Yes, perhaps I had better,” said Uncle Jack, rolling up his white shirt-sleeves, after taking off his coat and throwing it to me.
I saw Pannell glower at the pure white skin that covered great muscles as big and hard as his own, while, after unhooking a leather apron from where it hung, the lever was touched, the fire roared, and at last Uncle Jack brought out a piece of white-hot steel, banged it on the anvil, and rapidly beat it into shape.
Every stroke had its object, and not one unnecessary blow fell, while in a short time he held in the water, which hissed angrily, a hand-bill that was beautifully made, and possessed a graceful curve and hook that the others wanted.
“There,” said Uncle Jack. “That’s how I want them made.”