“Nay, but what’s good o’ thee wanting to grind? Want to tak’ work out o’ poor men’s hands?”
“Nonsense!” I cried angrily. “Why, Gentles, you know better than that. All I want is to understand thoroughly how it is done, so that I can talk to the men about their work, and show them if it isn’t right.”
“Oh!” he said in a curious tone of voice. “Well, you coom any time when watter-wheel’s going, and I’ll show thee all that I know. ’Tain’t much. Keeps men fro’ starving.”
“Why, Gentles,” I cried; “you drew three pounds five last week, and I saw you paid.”
“Three pun’ five! Did I?” he said. “Ah, but that was a partic’lar good week. I’ve got a missus and a lot o’ bairns to keep, and times is very bad, mester.”
“I’m sorry for it,” I said; and I went away and had a look in the books as soon as I reached the office, to find that Master Gentles never drew less than three pounds a-week; but I did not remind him of it, and during the next few days he very civilly showed me how his work was done—that is, the knack of holding and turning the blades, so that I rapidly acquired the way, and was too busy to notice the peculiar looks I received from the other men.
Of course I know how that I was a mere bungler, and clumsy, and slow in the extreme; but at the time I felt as if I must be very clever, and there was something very satisfactory in seeing a blackened hammered blade fresh from the forge turn bright and clean in my hands, while the edge grew sharp and even.
It was playing with edged tools with a vengeance, but I did not understand it then.