“Hello! Hello, there! Wake up! Breakfa-a-a-st! I thought that would
fetch you. Gosh! I wish I had your job at a dollar a day!”
Yates rubbed his eyes, and sat up in the hammock. At first he thought
the forest was tumbling down about his ears, but as he collected his
wits he saw that it was only young Bartlett who had come crashing
through the woods on the back of one horse, while he led another by a
strap attached to a halter. The echo of his hearty yell still resounded
in the depths of the woods, and rang in Yates’ ears as he pulled himself
together.
“Did you--ah--make any remarks?” asked Yates quietly.
The boy admired his gift of never showing surprise.
“I say, don’t you know that it’s not healthy to go to sleep in the
middle of the day?”
“Is it the middle of the day? I thought it was later. I guess I can
stand it, if the middle of the day can. I’ve a strong constitution. Now,
what do you mean by dashing up on two horses into a man’s bedroom in
that reckless fashion?”
The boy laughed.
“I thought perhaps you would like a ride. I knew you were alone, for I
saw the professor go mooning up the road a little while ago.”
“Oh! Where was he going?”
“Hanged if I know, and he didn’t look as if he knew himself. He’s a
queer fish, aint he?”
“He is. Everybody can’t be as sensible and handsome as we are, you know.
Where are you going with those horses, young man?”
“To get them shod. Won’t you come along? You can ride the horse I’m on.
It’s got a bridle. I’ll ride the one with the halter.”
“How far away is the blacksmith’s shop?”
“Oh, a couple of miles or so; down at the Cross Roads.”
“Well,” said Yates, “there’s merit in the idea. I take it your generous
offer is made in good faith, and not necessarily for publication.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“There is no concealed joke, is there? No getting me on the back of one
of those brutes to make a public exhibition of me? Do they bite or kick
or buck, or playfully roll over a person?”
“No,” cried, young Bartlett indignantly. “This is no circus. Why, a baby
could ride this horse.”
“Well, that’s about the style of horse I prefer. You see, I’m a trifle
out of practice. I never rode anything more spirited than a street car,
and I haven’t been on one of them for a week.”
“Oh, you can ride all right. I guess you could do most things you set
your mind to.”
Yates was flattered by this evidently sincere tribute to his capacity,
so he got out of the hammock. The boy, who had been sitting on the horse
with both feet on one side, now straightened his back and slipped to the
ground.
“Wait till I throw down the fence,” he said.
Yates mounted with some difficulty, and the two went trotting down the
road. He managed to hold his place with some little uncertainty, but the
joggling up and down worried him. He never seemed to alight in quite the
same place on the horse’s back, and this gave an element of chance to
his position which embarrassed him. He expected to come down some time
and find the horse wasn’t there. The boy laughed at his riding, but
Yates was too much engaged in keeping his position to mind that very
much.
“D-d-dirt is s-s-said to b-b-be matter out of place, and that’s what’s
the m-m-mat-matter w-w-with me.” His conversation seemed to be shaken
out of him by the trotting of the horse. “I say, Bartlett, I can’t stand
this any longer. I’d rather walk.”
“You’re all right,” said the boy; “we’ll make him canter.”
He struck the horse over the flank with the loose end of the halter
rein.
“Here!” shouted Yates, letting go the bridle and grasping the mane.
“Don’t make him go faster, you young fiend. I’ll murder you when I get
off--and that will be soon.”
“You’re all right,” repeated young Bartlett, and, much to his
astonishment, Yates found it to be so. When the horse broke into a
canter, Yates thought the motion as easy as swinging in a hammock, and
as soothing as a rocking chair.
“This is an improvement. But we’ve got to keep it up, for if this brute
suddenly changes to a trot, I’m done for.”
“We’ll keep it up until we come in sight of the Corners, then we’ll slow
down to a walk. There’s sure to be a lot of fellows at the blacksmith’s
shop, so we’ll come in on them easy like.”
“You’re a good fellow, Bartlett,” said Yates. “I suspected you of
tricks at first. I’m afraid, if I had got another chap in such a fix, I
wouldn’t have let him off as easily as you have me. The temptation would
have been too great.”
When they reached the blacksmith’s shop at the Corners, they found four
horses in the building ahead of them. Bartlett tied his team outside,
and then, with his comrade, entered the wide doorway of the smithy. The
shop was built of rough boards, and the inside was blackened with soot.
It was not well lighted, the two windows being obscured with much
smoke, so that they were useless as far as their original purpose was
concerned; but the doorway, as wide as that of a barn, allowed all the
light to come in that the smith needed for his work. At the far end
and darkest corner of the place stood the forge, with the large bellows
behind it, concealed, for the most part, by the chimney. The forge was
perhaps six feet square and three or four feet high, built of plank and
filled in with earth. The top was covered with cinders and coal, while
in the center glowed the red core of the fire, with blue flames hovering
over it. The man who worked the bellows chewed tobacco, and now and then
projected the juice with deadly accuracy right into the center of the
fire, where it made a momentary hiss and dark spot. All the frequenters
of the smithy admired Sandy’s skill in expectoration, and many tried
in vain to emulate it. The envious said it was due to the peculiar
formation of his front teeth, the upper row being prominent, and the
two middle teeth set far apart, as if one were missing. But this was
jealousy; Sandy’s perfection in the art was due to no favoritism of
nature, but to constant and long-continued practice. Occasionally with
his callous right hand, never removing his left from the lever, Sandy
pulled an iron bar out of the fire and examined it critically. The
incandescent end of the bar radiated a blinding white light when it was
gently withdrawn, and illuminated the man’s head, making his beardless
face look, against its dark background, like the smudged countenance of
some cynical demon glowing with a fire from within. The end of the bar
which he held must have been very hot to an ordinary mortal, as everyone
in the shop knew, all of them, at their initiation to the country club,
having been handed a black piece of iron from Sandy’s hand, which he
held unflinchingly, but which the innocent receiver usually dropped with
a yell. This was Sandy’s favorite joke, and made life worth living for
him. It was perhaps not so good as the blacksmith’s own bit of humor,
but public opinion was divided on that point. Every great man has his
own particular set of admirers; and there were some who said,--under
their breaths, of course,--that Sandy could turn a horseshoe as well
as Macdonald himself. Experts, however, while admitting Sandy’s general
genius, did not go so far as this.
About half a dozen members of the club were present, and most of them
stood leaning against something with hands deep in their trousers
pockets; one was sitting on the blacksmith’s bench, with his legs
dangling down. On the bench tools were scattered around so thickly that
he had had to clear a place before he could sit down; the taking of this
liberty proved the man to be an old and privileged member. He sat there
whittling a stick, aimlessly bringing it to a fine point, examining it
frequently with a critical air, as if he were engaged in some delicate
operation which required great discrimination.
The blacksmith himself stooped with his back to one of the horses, the
hind hoof of the animal, between his knees, resting on his leathern
apron. The horse was restive, looking over its shoulder at him, not
liking what was going on. Macdonald swore at it fluently, and requested
it to stand still, holding the foot as firmly as if it were in his own
iron vise, which was fixed to the table near the whittler. With his
right hand he held a hot horseshoe, attached to an iron punch that had
been driven into one of the nail holes, and this he pressed against the
upraised hoof, as though sealing a document with a gigantic seal. Smoke
and flame rose from the contact of the hot iron with the hoof, and the
air was filled with the not unpleasant odor of burning horn. The smith’s
tool box, with hammer, pinchers, and nails, lay on the earthern floor
within easy reach. The sweat poured from his grimy brow; for it was a
hot job, and Macdonald was in the habit of making the most of his work.
He was called the hardest working man in that part of the country,
and he was proud of the designation. He was a standing reproach to the
loafers who frequented his shop, and that fact gave him pleasure in
their company. Besides, a man must have an audience when he is an expert
in swearing. Macdonald’s profanity was largely automatic,--a natural
gift, as it were,--and he meant nothing wrong by it. In fact, when
you got him fighting angry, he always forgot to swear; but in his calm
moments oaths rolled easily and picturesquely from his lips, and gave
fluency to his conversation. Macdonald enjoyed the reputation round
about of being a wicked man, which he was not; his language was against
him, that was all. This reputation had a misty halo thrown around it by
Macdonald’s unknown doings “down East,” from which mystical region he
had come. No one knew just what Macdonald had done, but it was admitted
on all sides that he must have had some terrible experiences, although
he was still a young man and unmarried. He used to say: “When you have
come through what I have, you won’t be so ready to pick a quarrel with a
man.”
This must have meant something significant, but the blacksmith never
took anyone into his confidence; and “down East” is a vague place, a
sort of indefinite, unlocalized no-man’s-land, situated anywhere between
Toronto and Quebec. Almost anything might have happened in such a space
of country. Macdonald’s favorite way of crushing an opponent was to say:
“When you’ve had some of my experiences, young man, you’ll know better’n
to talk like that.” All this gave a certain fascination to friendship
with the blacksmith; and the farmers’ boys felt that they were playing
with fire when in his company, getting, as it were, a glimpse of the
dangerous side of life. As for work, the blacksmith reveled in it, and
made it practically his only vice. He did everything with full steam on,
and was, as has been said, a constant reproach to loafers all over the
country. When there was no work to do, he made work. When there was work
to do, he did it with a rush, sweeping the sweat from his grimy brow
with his hooked fore finger, and flecking it to the floor with a flirt
of the right hand, loose on the wrist, in a way that made his thumb
and fore finger snap together like the crack of a whip. This action was
always accompanied with a long-drawn breath, almost a sigh, that seemed
to say: “I wish I had the easy times you fellows have.” In fact, since
he came to the neighborhood the current phrase, “He works like a steer”
had given way to, “He works like Macdonald,” except with the older
people, who find it hard to change phrases. Yet everyone liked the
blacksmith, and took no special offense at his untiring industry,
looking at it rather as an example to others.
He did not look up as the two newcomers entered, but industriously pared
down the hoof with a curiously formed knife turned like a hook at the
point, burned in the shoe to its place, nailed it on, and rasped the
hoof into shape with a long, broad file. Not till he let the foot drop
on the earthen floor, and slapped the impatient horse on the flank, did
he deign to answer young Bartlett’s inquiry.
“No,” he said, wringing the perspiration from his forehead, “all these
horses aint ahead of you, and you won’t need to come next week. That’s
the last hoof of the last horse. No man needs to come to my shop and go
away again, while the breath of life is left in me. And I don’t do it,
either, by sitting on a bench and whittling a stick.”
“That’s so. That’s so,” said Sandy, chuckling, in the admiring tone of
one who intimated that, when the boss spoke, wisdom was uttered. “That’s
one on you, Sam.”
“I guess I can stand it, if he can,” said the whittler from the bench;
which was considered fair repartee.
“Sit it, you mean,” said young Bartlett, laughing with the others at his
own joke.
“But,” said the blacksmith severely, “we’re out of shoes, and you’ll
have to wait till we turn some, that is, if you don’t want the old ones
reset. Are they good enough?”
“I guess so, if you can find ‘em; but they’re out in the fields. Didn’t
think I’d bring the horses in while they held on, did you?”
Then, suddenly remembering his duties, he said by, way of general
introduction: “Gentlemen, this is my friend Mr. Yates from New York.”
The name seemed to fall like a wet blanket on the high spirits of the
crowd. They had imagined from the cut of his clothes that he was a
storekeeper from some village around, or an auctioneer from a distance,
these two occupations being the highest social position to which a man
might attain. They were prepared to hear that he was from Welland, or
perhaps St. Catherines; but New York! that was a crusher. Macdonald,
however, was not a man to be put down in his own shop and before his
own admirers. He was not going to let his prestige slip from him merely
because a man from New York had happened along. He could not claim to
know the city, for the stranger would quickly detect the imposture and
probably expose him; but the slightly superior air which Yates wore
irritated him, while it abashed the others. Even Sandy was silent.
“I’ve met some people from New York down East,” he said in an offhand
manner, as if, after all, a man might meet a New Yorker and still not
sink into the ground.
“Really?” said Yates. “I hope you liked them.”
“Oh, so-so,” replied the blacksmith airily. “There’s good and bad among
them, like the rest of us.”
“Ah, you noticed that,” said Yates. “Well, I’ve often thought the same
myself. It’s a safe remark to make; there is generally no disputing it.”
The condescending air of the New Yorker was maddening, and Macdonald
realized that he was losing ground. The quiet insolence of Yates’ tone
was so exasperating to the blacksmith that he felt any language at his
disposal inadequate to cope with it. The time for the practical joke
had arrived. The conceit of this man must be taken down. He would try
Sandy’s method, and, if that failed, it would at least draw attention
from himself to his helper.
“Being as you’re from New York, maybe you can decide a little bet Sandy
here wants to have with somebody.”
Sandy, quick to take the hint, picked up the bar that always lay near
enough the fire to be uncomfortably warm.
“How much do you reckon that weighs?” he said, with critical nicety
estimating its ounces in his swaying hand. Sandy had never done
it better. There was a look of perfect innocence on his bland,
unsophisticated countenance, and the crowd looked on in breathless
suspense.
Bartlett was about to step forward and save his friend, but a wicked
glare from Macdonald restrained him; besides, he felt, somehow, that
his sympathies were with his neighbors, and not with the stranger he had
brought among them. He thought resentfully that Yates might have been
less high and mighty. In fact, when he asked him to come he had imagined
his brilliancy would be instantly popular, and would reflect glory on
himself. Now he fancied he was included in the general scorn Yates took
such little pains to conceal.
Yates glanced at the piece of iron and, without taking his hands from
his pockets, said carelessly:
“Oh, I should imagine it weighed a couple of pounds.”
“Heft it,” said Sandy beseechingly, holding it out to him.
“No, thank you,” replied Yates, with a smile. “Do you think I have never
picked up a hot horseshoe before? If you are anxious to know its weight,
why don’t you take it over to the grocery store and have it weighed?”
“‘Taint hot,” said Sandy, as he feebly smiled and flung the iron back on
the forge. “If it was, I couldn’t have held it s’long.”
“Oh, no,” returned Yates, with a grin, “of course not. I don’t know what
a blacksmith’s hands are, do I? Try something fresh.”
Macdonald saw there was no triumph over him among his crowd, for they
all evidently felt as much involved in the failure of Sandy’s trick as
he did himself; but he was sure that in future some man, hard pushed in
argument, would fling the New Yorker at him. In the crisis he showed the
instinct of a Napoleon.
“Well, boys,” he cried, “fun’s fun, but I’ve got to work. I have to earn
my living, anyhow.”
Yates enjoyed his victory; they wouldn’t try “getting at” him again, he
said to himself.
Macdonald strode to the forge and took out the bar of white-hot iron. He
gave a scarcely perceptible nod to Sandy, who, ever ready with tobacco
juice, spat with great directness on the top of the anvil. Macdonald
placed the hot iron on the spot, and quickly smote it a stalwart blow
with the heavy hammer. The result was appalling. An instantaneous
spreading fan of apparently molten iron lit up the place as if it were a
flash of lightning. There was a crash like the bursting of a cannon.
The shop was filled for a moment with a shower of brilliant sparks, that
flew like meteors to every corner of the place. Everyone was prepared
for the explosion except Yates. He sprang back with a cry, tripped,
and, without having time to get the use of his hands to ease his fall,
tumbled and rolled to the horses’ heels. The animals, frightened by the
report, stamped around; and Yates had to hustle on his hands and knees
to safer quarters, exhibiting more celerity than dignity. The blacksmith
never smiled, but everyone else roared. The reputation of the country
was safe. Sandy doubled himself up in his boisterous mirth.
“There’s no one like the old man!” he shouted. “Oh, lordy! lordy! He’s
all wool, and a yard wide.”
Yates picked himself up and dusted himself off, laughing with the rest
of them.
“If I ever knew that trick before, I had forgotten it. That’s one on me,
as this youth in spasms said a moment ago. Blacksmith, shake! I’ll treat
the crowd, if there’s a place handy.”