He looked at his grimy hands, at his mud-stained clothes, up the road, down the road, and finally at the boy, who had at last made an impression on his retina.
“Hi, boy!” he said.
The boy approached with a shy smile. Mr. Greatorex scowled, conscious of his plight.
“Boy, tell me, and don’t grin, is there a smith anywhere in this neighbourhood?”
“In the village, sure, measter.”
“Where is the village?”
“About three miles away, over yonder.”
“God bless me! Three miles! Well, look here, boy, I’ll give you sixpence to run there and send the smith back—behind a horse, on a bicycle, anyhow—to mend this confounded machine. I’m twenty miles away from home, you understand, and I shall be late for dinner. I’ll make it a shilling if the smith is here within an hour.”
The boy looked up into the wrathful face and smiled again.
“Would ’ee like me to mend un for ’ee? ’Twould maybe save time.”