“I’ve done a lot of smith’s work,” continued Mr. Sumption eagerly. “There’s nothing I can’t do with hoof and iron.”
The smith hesitated; then he saw the visitor’s arms as he took off his coat and began to roll up his sleeves.
“Well, maybe ... if you know aught ... there’s the liddle cob thur wants a shoe.”
A few men and boys were in the smithy, and they looked at each other and whispered a little. They had never seen such swingeing, hairy arms as Mr. Sumption’s.
A smile was fighting its way across the stubble on the minister’s face. He cracked his joints with satisfaction, and soon the little cob was shod by as quick, as merciful, and as sure a hand as had ever touched him. His owner looked surprised.
“I’d never taake you fur a smith,” he remarked; “leastways, not wud your coat on.”
“I’m not a smith. I’m a Minister of the Gospel.”
The men winked at each other and hid their mouths. Then one of them asked suddenly:
“Are you the Rev. Mr. Sumption from Sunday Street?”