"You drive over there for me, and get some—just like this here—pickets and posts and whatever you call them long pieces, and I'll make it right with you."
"Yes, sir—how much will I get?"
"Oh, tell him to fill the waggon up with it, and I'll send back what I don't want—hustle, now, like a good boy; I want to get shut of this job; I liked it better before I begun."
When his Mercury had speeded on the journey at a faster gait than Red would have given him credit for, the architect strode down to the blacksmith's shop. There was a larger crowd than usual around the forge, as the advent of the stranger had gotten into the wind, and the village Vulcan was a person who not only looked the whole world in the face, but no one of the maiden ladies of Fairfield could have excelled his interest in looking the whole world as much in the inside pocket as possible. The blacksmith was emphatically a gossip, as well as a hardworking, God-fearing man.
"Say, there he comes now, Mr. Tuttle!" cried one of the loungers, and nudged the smith to look.
"Well, let him come!" retorted the smith, testily, jamming a shoe in the fire with unnecessary force; as a matter of fact, he was embarrassed. The loungers huddled together for moral support, as the big cow-man loomed through the doorway.
"Good morning, friends!" said he.
"Good morning, sir!" replied the blacksmith, rubbing his hands on his apron. "Nice day, sir?"
"For the sake of good fellowship, I'll say 'yes' to that," responded Red. "But if you want my honest opinion on the subject, it's damn hot."
"'Tis that," assented the smith, and a silence followed.