The conscript habits of by-gone years were still latent in the smith's mind. Dropping his hammer, he brought his heels together, drew himself up as far as his bent frame would allow, and saluted smartly in the Prussian style.
"I want this straightened out instantly, smith," said Dick, returning the salute. "It is work of imperial importance."
"Certainly, herr leutnant," replied the man, relieving Dick of his burden. "A part of one of our incomparable flying machines? An accident has taken place?"
"Yes," replied Dick, then, realising that he would have to account for the fact that an officer had to perform the menial work of bringing the rod to the smithy, he added, "and my sergeant has broken his leg—the idiot.... So I must needs fetch and carry. ...And not a single peasant did I meet to relieve me of this weight. The mud and rain, too, are vile."
"There are few men left here," said the smith. "We are even obliged to——. But how is this to go, herr leutnant? Are the two slotted ends to remain in line or across each other, so?"
He traced a rough diagram upon a board by means of a piece of chalk, at the same time signing to his assistant to get to work with the bellows.
The man, his face working with anger, merely folded his arms. Again the smith motioned to him. Dick began to think the assistant was deaf and dumb, or, perhaps, of weak intellect.
Still meeting with refusal the smith grasped a round bar of iron. The other, stepping back to the wall snatched up a formidable pair of tongs.
"Hanged if I do a stroke of work to the job!" exclaimed the man in unmistakable English. "Let the Bosche do a bit. It will do him good. Nothin' doing here, old sport."