"A book is so clumsy—" I began.
"Or a book? Why not cut down the long legs to match the short one?"
"That is really an excellent idea."
"Then why didn't you before?"
"Because, to be frank with you, it never occurred to me."
"I suppose you are better as a blacksmith than a carpenter, aren't you, Peter?" And, seeing I could find no answer worthy of retort, she laughed, and, sitting down, watched me while I took my saw, forthwith, and shortened the three long legs as she had suggested. Having done which, to our common satisfaction, seeing the moon was rising, we went and sat down on the bench beside the cottage door.
"And—are you a very good blacksmith?" she pursued, turning to regard me, chin in hand.
"I can swing a hammer or shoe a horse with any smith in Kent—except
Black George, and he is the best in all the South Country."
"And is that a very great achievement, Peter?"
"It is not a despicable one."