"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."