An old man, iron gray, with a pair of mason's mallets swung front and back across his shoulders, stepped into the smithy.
"How fend ye, John?" he said.
"Middling weel, Job," answered the blacksmith; "and what's your errand now?"
"A chisel or two for tempering."
"Cutting in the church-yard to-day, Job? Cold wark, eh?"
"Ey, auld Ritson's stone as they've putten over him."
The blacksmith tapped the peddler on the arm.
"Gubblum, shall I tell you what's a-matter with Paul?"
"Never you bother, John, it's die-spensy."
"It's fretting—that's it—fretting for his father."