"Lord knows!" returned the Ancient; "unless Job thinks better of it."
"Not me," said that individual, feeling his right elbow with tender solicitude. "I'm done wi' Black Jarge, I am. 'E nigh broke my back for me once afore, but this is the last time; I never swing a sledge for Black Jarge again—danged if I du!"
"And 'im to mend th' owd church screen up to Cranbrook Church," sighed the Ancient; "a wunnerful screen, a wunnerful screen! older nor me—ah! a sight older—hunneds and hunneds o' years older—they wouldn't let nobody touch it but Black Jarge."
"'E be the best smith in the South Country!" nodded Simon.
"Ay, an' a bad man to work for as ever was!" growled Job. "I'll work for 'e no more; my mind's made up, an' when my mind's made up theer bean't no movin' me—like a rock I be!"
"'Twould ha' been a fine thing for a Siss'n'urst man to ha' mended t' owd screen!" said the Ancient.
"'Twould that!" nodded Simon, "a shame it is as it should go to others."
Hereupon, having finished my ale, I rose.
"Be you'm a-goin', young maister?" inquired the Ancient.
"Why, that depends," said I. "I understand that this man, Black
George, needs a helper, so I have decided to go and offer my services."