“I’ll take this,” said Mark. “There’s sixpence.”
He had chosen a bit of iron rod, short, and thicker than their ramrod. Bevis had told him what to look for.
“All right, sir—anything else?”
“Well,” said Mark, moving towards the door, “I don’t know,”—then stopping with an admirable assumption of indifference. “Suppose you had to stop up one end of a pipe, how should you do it?”
“Make it white-hot,” said the smith. “Bring it to me.”
“Will white-hot shut tight?”
“Quite tight—it runs together when hit. Bring it to me. I say, where’s the punt?” grinning. His white teeth gleamed between his open lips—a row of ivory set in a grimy face.
“The punt’s at the bottom,” said Mark, with a louring countenance.
“Nice boys,” said the smith. “You’re very nice boys. If you was mine—” He took up a slender ash plant that was lying on the bench, and made it ply and whistle in the air.
Mark tossed his chin, kicked the door open, and walked off.