“You clumsy, bull-headed fool,” roared the founder, dashing at him and delivering so sturdy a blow from his stalwart arm that the man staggered back, tried to recover himself, and then fell heavily, to sit up slowly the next moment, applying his hand to his cut forehead and gazing meditatively at the blood.
“You bean’t going to stand that, Tom Croftly,” whispered one who was bending over him. “Get up and pook him well, if you bean’t a coward.”
The foundryman gazed in Abel Churr’s foxy eyes, and shook his head.
“Nay, nay, the master’s right enough, though he did hit hard. I ought to ha’ looked after the trade.”
“What are you doing there, Abel Churr?” cried the ironfounder. “Here, Mace, lass, fetch me that ale.”
“What am I doing here, Mas’ Cobbe?” said the adder-hunter, as Mace ran off, satisfied now that her father was not hurt. “I heard the blowing up, and I knew some one would be burned, so I came. You’ll want a bit of adder’s fat for them burns, Mas’ Cobbe.”
“Out with thy trash!” cried the founder, angrily. “Here, you Tom Croftly, rise up and I’ll smite you down again.”
The great fellow began to rise slowly, with the obedience of a dog, but the parson interposed:—
“Nay, nay, Master Cobbe; thou hast done enough beating.”
“The master’s quite right,” said the foundryman; “I ought to have looked after the trade.”