“Very well, do so,” assented Father Bear. “Let me say to you that iron is the thing that has given men the advantage over us bears, which is another reason for my wishing to put an end to the work here.”
The boy thought he would use the delay to figure out a way of escape, but instead he began to think of the great help that iron had been to mankind. They needed iron for everything. There was iron in the plow that broke up the field; in the axe that felled the tree for building houses; in the scythe that mowed the grain; and in the knife, which would be turned to all sorts of uses. There was iron in the horse’s bit, in the lock on the door, in the nails that held furniture together. The rifle that drove away wild beasts was made of iron; iron covered the men-of-war; the locomotives steamed through the country on iron rails; the needle that had stitched his coat was of iron; the shears that clipped the sheep and the kettle that cooked the food. Father Bear was perfectly right in saying that it was the iron that had given men their mastery over the bears.
“Now will you or won’t you?” Father Bear repeated.
The boy was startled from his musing.
“You mustn’t be so impatient,” he said. “This is a serious matter for me, and I’ve got to have time to consider.”
“I can wait a little longer,” said Father Bear. “But after that you’ll get no more grace.”
The boy swept his hand across his forehead. No plan of escape had as yet come to his mind, but this much he knew—he did not wish to do any harm to the iron, which was so useful to rich and poor alike, and which gave bread to so many people in this land.
“Come, come!” growled the bear. “Will you or won’t you?”