The man’s face was set in a savage vindictive look, full of jealous annoyance, at seeing a well-dressed gentleman strip and use the smith’s hammer and pincers better than he could have used them himself.
“Make me one now after that pattern,” said Uncle Jack.
It seemed to me that the giant was going to tear off his leather apron furiously and stride out of the place; but just then Uncle Jack stretched out his great strong hand and lifted up Pannell’s kitten, which had sprung upon the forge and was about to set its little paws on the hot cinders.
“Poor pussy!” he said, standing it in one hand and stroking it with the other. “You mustn’t burn those little paws and singe that coat. Is this the one that had the mouse, Cob?”
Just as I answered, “Yes,” I saw the great smith change his aspect, pick up the still hot hand-bill that Uncle Jack had forged, stare hard at it on both sides, and then, throwing it down, he seized the pincers in one hand, the forge shovel in the other, turned on the blast and made the fire glow, and at last whisked out a piece of white-hot steel.
This he in turn banged down on the anvil—stithy he called it—and beat into shape.
It was not done so skilfully as Uncle Jack had forged his, but the work was good and quick, and when he had done, the man cooled it and held it out with all the rough independence of the north-countryman.
“Suppose that may do, mester,” he said, and he stared at where Uncle Jack still stroked the kitten, which made a platform of his broad palm, and purred and rubbed itself against his chest.
“Capitally!” said Uncle Jack, setting down the kitten gently. “Yes; I wouldn’t wish to see better work.”
“Aw raight!” said Pannell; and he went on with his work, while Uncle Jack and I walked across the yard to the office.