“Ay, sparks are scrambling up. ’Tis a way they have, Billy,” answered the other cheerily. “What’s your news?”
Again Billy laughed, but cunningly this time. “Grand news—all about myself. Was up at sunrise, and been doing naught ever since. I’m main fond of doing naught, David. Seems to trickle down your body, does idleness, like good ale.”
The blacksmith loosed his hold on the bellows’ handles and turned about, while he passed a hand across his forehead.
“Is there nought ye like better than idleness?” he asked. “Think now, Billy—just ponder over it.”
“Well, now,” answered the other, after a silence, “there’s playing—what ye might call playing at a right good game. Could ye think of some likely pastime, David?”
“Ay, could I. Blowing bellows is the grandest frolic ever I came across.”
Billy was wary, after his own fashion, and he looked at the blacksmith hard, his child’s eyes—blue and unclouded by the storms of life—showing big beneath their heavy brows of reddish-brown.
“I doubt ’tis work, David,” he said dispassionately.
“Nay, now! Would I ask thee to work, lad? Fond o’ thee as I am, and knowing labour’s harmful to thee?”
“I shouldn’t like to be trapped into work. ’Twould scare me when I woke o’ nights and thought of it.”