Harold took his favourite horse, Warrigal, from the stable, and led him to the blacksmith’s forge under an open, stringybark-roofed shed, nearly covered with creepers. He lit a fire and put a shoe in it. Doffing his coat and hat, rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and donning a leather apron, he began preparing the horse’s hoof.
When an emergency arose that necessitated uncle Jay-Jay shoeing his horses himself. I always manipulated the bellows, and did so with great decorum, as he was very exacting and I feared his displeasure. In this case it was different. I worked the pole with such energy that it almost blew the whole fire out of the pan, and sent the ashes and sparks in a whirlwind around Harold. The horse—a touchy beast—snorted and dragged his foot from his master’s grasp.
“That the way to blow?” I inquired demurely.
“Take things a little easier,” he replied.
I took them so very easily that the fire was on the last gasp and the shoe nearly cold when it was required.
“This won’t do,” said Beecham.
I recommenced blowing with such force that he had to retreat.
“Steady! steady!” he shouted.
“Sure O’i can’t plaze yez anyhows,” I replied.
“If you don’t try to plaze me directly I’ll punish you in a way you won’t relish,” he said laughingly. But I knew he was thinking of a punishment which I would have secretly enjoyed.