The agent laughed shortly at the name.
“You’re wise, are you?” he said. “And still you want a job out there? Well, I’m sorry. That load of Bohunks across the street fills me up. I can’t use any more rough labour just at present. I’m looking for a blacksmith’s helper, but I guess that ain’t you.”
“That’s me,” said Toppy resolutely. “That’s the job I want—blacksmith’s helper. That’s my job.”
The agent looked him over with the critical eye of a man skilfully appraising bone and muscle.
“You’re big enough, that’s sure,” he drawled. “You’ve got the shoulders and arms, too, but—let’s see your hands.”
Toppy held up his hands, huge in size, but entirely innocent of callouses or other signs of wear. The agent grinned.
“Soft as a woman’s,” he said scornfully. “When did you ever do any blacksmithing? Long time ago, wasn’t it? Before you were born, I guess.”
Toppy’s right hand shot out and fell upon the agent’s thin arm. Slowly and steadily he squeezed until the man writhed and grimaced with pain.
“Wow! Leggo!” The agent peered over his thick glasses with something like admiration in his eyes. “Say, you’re there with the grip, all right, big fellow. Where’d you get it?”
“Swinging a sledge,” lied Toppy solemnly. “And I’ve come here to get that job.”