The Broad Highway by Jeffery Farnol (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📖

A tinker I am, O Strike! ding! ding! A tinker am I The iron it glows, A tinker I’ll live And loveth good blows, And a tinker I’ll die. As fire doth bellows. If the King in his crown Strike! ding! ding! Would change places with me Strike! ding! ding!” And so forth.

The louder he roared, the louder roared I, until the place fairly rang with the din, in so much that, chancing to look through the open doorway, I saw the Ancient, with Simon, Job, and several others, on the opposite side of the way, staring, open-mouthed, as well they might. But still the smith and I continued to howl at each other with unabated vigor until he stopped, all at once, and threw down his hammer with a clang.

“Dang me if I like that voice o’ yourn!” he exclaimed.

“Why, to be sure, I don’t sing very often,” I answered.

“Which, I mean to say, is a very good thing; ah! a very good thing!”

“Nor do I pretend to sing—”

“Then why do ‘ee try now?”

“For company’s sake.”

“Well, I don’t like it; I’ve ‘ad enough of it.”

“Then,” said I, “suppose you listen to what I have to say?”

“Not by no manner o’ means.”

“Then what do you propose to do?”

“Why,” said the smith, rising and stretching himself, “since you ax me, I’m a-goin’ to pitch you out o’ yon door.”

“You may try, of course,” said I, measuring the distance between us with my eye, “but if you do, seeing you are so much the bigger and stronger man, I shall certainly fetch you a knock with this staff of mine which I think you will remember for many a day.”

So saying, I rose and stepped out into the middle of the floor. Black George eyed me slowly up from the soles of my boots to the crown of my hat and down again, picked up his hammer in an undecided fashion, looked it over as if he had never seen such a thing before, tossed it into a corner, and, seating himself on the anvil, folded his arms. All at once a merry twinkle leapt into the blue depths of his eyes, and I saw the swift gleam of a smile.

“What do ‘ee want—man?” said he.

Now hereupon, with a sudden gesture, I pitched my staff out through the open doorway into the road, and folded my arms across my chest, even as he.

“Why did ‘ee do that?” he inquired, staring.

“Because I don’t think I shall need it, after all.”

“But suppose I was to come for ‘ee now?”

“But you won’t.”

“You be a strange sort o’ chap!” said he, shaking his head.

“So they tell me.”

“And what does the likes o’ you want wi’ the likes o’ me?”

“Work!”

“Know anythin’ about smithin’?”

“Not a thing.”

“Then why do ‘ee come ‘ere?”

“To learn.”

“More fool you!” said the smith.

“Why?”

“Because smithin’ is ‘ard work, and dirty work, and hot work, and work as is badly paid nowadays.”

“Then why are you a smith?”

“My feyther was a smith afore me.”

“And is that your only reason?”

“My only reason.”

“Then you are the greater fool.”

“You think so, do ye?”

“Certainly.”

“Supposin’,” said Black George, stroking his golden beard reflectively, “supposin’ I was to get up and break your neck for that.”

“Then you would, at least, save me from the folly of becoming a smith.”

“I don’t,” said Black George, shaking his head, “no, I do not like you.”

“I am sorry for that.”

“Because,” he went on, “you’ve got the gift o’ the gab, and a gabbing man is worse than a gabbing woman.”

“You can gab your share, if it comes to that,” said I.

“Can I?”

“You can.”

“My chap,” he growled, holding up a warning hand, “go easy now, go easy; don’t get me took again.”

“Not if I can help it,” I returned.

“I be a quiet soul till I gets took—a very quiet soul—lambs bean’t quieter, but I won’t answer for that neck o’ yourn if I do get took—so look out!”

“I understand you have an important piece of work on hand,” said I, changing the subject.

“Th’ owd church screen, yes.”

“And are in need of a helper?”

“Ah! to be sure—but you aren’t got the look o’ a workin’ cove. I never see a workin’ cove wi’ ‘ands the like o’ yourn, so white as a woman’s they be.”

“I have worked hard enough in my time, nevertheless,” said I.

“What might you ‘ave done, now?”

“I have translated Petronius Arbiter, also Quintilian, with a literal rendering into the English of the Memoires of the Sieur de Brantome.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the smith, “that sounds a lot! anything more?”

“Yes,” I answered; “I won the High Jump, and Throwing the Hammer.”

“Throwin’ th’ ‘ammer!” repeated Black George musingly; “was it anything like that theer?” And he pointed to a sledge near, by.

“Something,” I answered.

“And you want work?”

“I do.”

“Tell ‘ee what, my fellow, if you can throw that theer ‘ammer further nor me, then I’ll say, ‘Done,’ and you can name your own wages, but if I beat you, and I’m fair sure I can, then you must stand up to me for ten minutes, and I’ll give ‘ee a good trouncin’ to ease my mind—what d’ye say?”

After a momentary hesitation, I nodded my head.

“Done!” said I.

“More fool you!” grinned the smith, and, catching up his sledge-hammer, he strode out into the road.

Before “The Bull” a small crowd had gathered, all newly come from field or farmyard, for most of them carried rake or pitchfork, having doubtless been drawn thither by the hellish outcry of Black George and myself. Now I noticed that while they listened to the Ancient, who was holding forth, snuff-box in hand, yet every eye was turned towards the smithy, and in every eye was expectation. At our appearance, however, I thought they seemed, one and all, vastly surprised and taken aback, for heads were shaken, and glances wandered from the smith and myself to the Ancient, and back again.

“Well, I’ll be danged!” exclaimed Job.

“I knowed it! I knowed it!” cried the Ancient, rubbing his hands and chuckling.

“Knowed what, Gaffer?” inquired Black George, as we came up.

“Why, I knowed as this young chap would come out a-walkin’ ‘pon his own two legs, and not like Job, a-rollin’ and a-wallerin’ in the dust o’ th’ road—like a hog.”

“Why, y’ see, Gaffer,” began the smith, almost apologetically it seemed to me, “it do come sort o’ nat’ral to heave the likes o’ Job about a bit—Job’s made for it, y’ might say, but this chap ‘s different.”

“So ‘e be, Jarge—so ‘e be!” nodded the Ancient.

“Though, mark me, Gaffer, I aren’t nohow in love wi’ this chap neither—‘e gabs too much to suit me, by a long sight!”

“‘E do that!” chimed in Job, edging nearer; “what I sez is, if ‘e do get ‘is back broke, ‘e aren’t got nobody to blame but ‘isself —so cocksure as ‘e be.”

“Job,” said the Ancient, “hold thee tongue.”

“I sez ‘e’s a cocksure cove,” repeated Job doggedly, “an’ a cocksure cove ‘e be; what do ‘ee think, Jarge?”

“Job,” returned the smith, “I don’t chuck a man into t’ road and talk wi’ ‘im both in the same day.”

In this conversation I bore no part, busying myself in drawing out a wide circle in the dust, a proceeding watched by the others with much interest, and not a few wondering comments.

“What be goin’ to du wi’ ‘ammer, Jarge?” inquired the Ancient.

“Why,” explained the smith, “this chap thinks ‘e can throw it further nor me.” At this there was a general laugh. “If so be ‘e can,” pursued Black George, “then ‘e comes to work for me at ‘is own price, but if I beat ‘im, then ‘e must stand up to me wi’ ‘is fists for ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes!” cried a voice; “‘e won’t last five—see if ‘e do.”

“Feel sorry for un,” said a second, “‘e do be so pale as a sheet a’ready.”

“So would you be if you was in ‘is shoes!” chimed in a third; whereat there was a general laugh.

Indeed, as, I looked round the ring of grinning, unresponsive faces, it was plain to see that all sympathy was against the stranger, as is the way of bird, beast, fish, but especially man, the world over—and I experienced a sudden sense of loneliness which was, I think, only natural. Yet, as I put up my hand to loose the strap of my knapsack, I encountered another already there, and, turning, beheld Simon the Innkeeper.

“If it do come to fightin’,” he whispered close in my ear, “if it do come to fightin’, and I’m fair sure it will, keep away as much as you can; you look quick on your pins. Moreover, whatever you do, watch ‘is right, and when you do see a chance to strike, go for ‘is chin—a little to one side—and strike danged ‘ard!”

“Many thanks for your friendly advice,” said I, with a grateful nod and, slipping off my coat, would have handed it to him but that the Ancient hobbled up, and, taking it from me, folded it ostentatiously across his arm.

“Mark my words, Simon,” said he, “this young chap is as like what I were at his age as one pea is to another—I says so, and I means so.”

“Come,” said Black George, at this juncture, “I’ve work waitin’ to be done, and my forge fire will be out.”

“I’m quite ready,” said I, stepping forward. It was now arranged that, standing alternately within the circle, we should each have three throws—whoever should make the two best throws to win. Hereupon, the smith took his place within the circle, hammer in hand.

“Wait,” said I, “the advantage usually lies with the last thrower, it would be fairer to you were we to toss for it.”

“No,” answered Black George, motioning the onlookers to stand back, “I’ve got th’ ‘ammer, and I’ll throw first.”

Now, as probably every one knows, it is one thing to swing a sledge-hammer in the ordinary way but quite another to throw it any distance, for there is required, beside the bodily strength, a certain amount of knowledge, without which a man is necessarily handicapped. Thus, despite my opponent’s great strength of arm, I was fairly sanguine of the result.

Black George