Peer whistled again. “There’s something in that. That’s an idea. I’m not so handless yet that I couldn’t—”
He was soon hard at it. There were tools and a joiner’s bench in an outhouse, and there he worked. He grew easily tired; his feet tried constantly to take him to the door, but he forced himself to go on. Is there anything in the notion that a man can get well by simply willing it? I will, will, will. The thought of others besides himself began to get the upper hand of those birds of prey ravening in his head. Presents for the children, presents that father had made himself—the picture made light and warmth in his mind. Drive ahead then.
When it came to making the iron ribbons for the sleigh runners he had to go across to the smithy; and there stood a cottar at work roughing horseshoes. Red glowing iron once more, and steel. The clang of hammer on anvil seemed to tear his ears; yet it drew him on too. It was long since last he heard that sound. And there were memories.
“Want this welded, Jens? Where’s the borax? Look here, this is the way of it.”
“Might ha’ been born and bred a smith,” said Jens, as he watched the deft and easy hammer-strokes.
Christmas Eve came, and the grey farm-pony dragged up a big wooden case to the door. Peer opened it and carried in the things—a whole heap of good things for Christmas from the Ringeby relations.
He bit his lips when he saw all the bags piled up on the kitchen table. There had been a time not long ago when Merle and he had loaded up a sledge at the Loreng storehouse and driven off with Christmas gifts to all the poor folk round. It was part of the season’s fun for them. And now—now they must even be glad to receive presents themselves.
“Merle—have WE nothing we can give away this year?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“A poor man’s Christmas it’ll be with a vengeance—if we’re only to take presents, and haven’t the least little thing to give away.”