The small shed where the forge stood was close by the tracks and as he pulled up before it, he espied through its doorway not only Peter McGrath, the blacksmith, but also the rotund figure of Artie Nickerson, the Sawyer Falls station agent.
"Art's inside! Ain't that luck?" he remarked, clambering out of the car. "The station must be closed an' he's come across the road to neighbor with Pete."
They went in and after the usual greetings, Elisha stated his errand.
McGrath took the handcuffs and badge to the light and examined them.
"Humph! Looks as if you'd been in some sort of a scrimmage," he commented.
"I ain't. Things get weared out in time. The pin on that badge warn't never right. 'Twouldn't clasp. As for the handcuffs, I reckon they're O.K. 'cept for the key bein' gone. Think you can make me one?"
"Sure. That ain't no trick at all. I can hammer you out a skeleton key which, though 'twon't take no prize as to beauty, will do what you want it to. I can sodder some sort of a pin an' catch on the badge, too. S'pose you ain't in no 'special hurry for 'em. There don't 'pear to be a cryin' need round here for such articles," he concluded with a chuckle.
"Nevertheless, I would like 'em," Elisha demurred. "You see I'm plannin' to take 'em back with me. I don't often get over here an' you never can tell these days when such things may be wanted."
"Just as you say. I'll start on 'em straight away. I ain't busy on nothin' that can't be put aside."
Elisha strolled over to a box and sat down to wait.