"Done!" said I.
"More fool you!" grinned the smith, and, catching up his sledge-hammer, he strode out into the road.
Before "The Bull" a small crowd had gathered, all newly come from field or farmyard, for most of them carried rake or pitchfork, having doubtless been drawn thither by the hellish outcry of Black George and myself. Now I noticed that while they listened to the Ancient, who was holding forth, snuff-box in hand, yet every eye was turned towards the smithy, and in every eye was expectation. At our appearance, however, I thought they seemed, one and all, vastly surprised and taken aback, for heads were shaken, and glances wandered from the smith and myself to the Ancient, and back again.
"Well, I'll be danged!" exclaimed Job.
"I knowed it! I knowed it!" cried the Ancient, rubbing his hands and chuckling.
"Knowed what, Gaffer?" inquired Black George, as we came up.
"Why, I knowed as this young chap would come out a-walkin' 'pon his own two legs, and not like Job, a-rollin' and a-wallerin' in the dust o' th' road—like a hog."
"Why, y' see, Gaffer," began the smith, almost apologetically it seemed to me, "it do come sort o' nat'ral to heave the likes o' Job about a bit—Job's made for it, y' might say, but this chap 's different."
"So 'e be, Jarge—so 'e be!" nodded the Ancient.
"Though, mark me, Gaffer, I aren't nohow in love wi' this chap neither—'e gabs too much to suit me, by a long sight!"