“Theer’s summut for you hung up i’ the forge chimney. She goes hard, but theer’s a steel bar ’long wi’ her as you can prise down the spring till she’s set. On’y mind thysen, lad—mind thysen.”
“And will it hold a man, Pannell?” I cried.
“Ay; this here’s noo pattern. I haven’t got into it yet I’ve got a rare lot of ’em to do.”
“But tell me,” I whispered, “will it?”
“Think this here noo steel’s better than owd fashion stoof?” he said.
“Bother the steel!” I said, speaking lower still. “I want you to tell me whether—”
“Bull-poop’s gettin’ too fat, Mester Jacob,” said Pannell. “Don’t give ’im so much meat. Spoils a dorg. Give un bones as he can break oop and yeat. That’s the stoof for dorgs. Gives un such a coat as never was.”
“Will you tell me?” I began, angrily.
“Nay, I wean’t tell thee nowt,” he growled. “I’ve telled thee enew as it is. Tek it when I’m not here, and good luck to thee!”
I could get no more from him, for he would not say another word about the trap, so I waited impatiently for the night so that I might smuggle it from the forge chimney into my desk.