“Want you to put a new shoe on this horse of mine,” replied Seth, not too graciously.

“Is that so!  Well, I’m busy.”

“I don’t care if you be.  I guess you ain’t so busy you can’t do a job of work.  If you are, you’re richer’n I ever heard you was.”

“I want to know!  Maybe I’m particular who I work for, Seth Atkins.”

“Maybe you are.  I ain’t so particular; if I was, I wouldn’t come here, I tell you that.  This horse of mine’s got a loose shoe, and I want him attended to quick.”

“Thought you said you’d never trust me with another job.”

“I ain’t trustin’ you now.  I’ll be here while it’s done.  And I ain’t askin’ you to trust me, neither.  I’ll pay cash—­cash, d’ye understand?”

The bystanders grinned.  Mr. Ellis’s frown deepened.  “I’m busy,” he declared, with importance.  “I’ve got Mr. Delancey Barry’s automobile to fix, and I can’t stop to bother with horses—­specially certain kind of horses.”

This sneer at Joshua roused his owner’s ire.  He dropped the reins and sprang to the ground.

“See here, Benije Ellis,” he growled, advancing upon the repairer of automobiles, who retreated a step or two with promptness.  “I don’t care what you’re fixin’, nor whose it is, neither.  I guess ’twill be ‘fixed’ all right when you get through with it, but that ain’t neither here nor there.  And it don’t make no difference if it does belong to Mr. Barry.  If ’twas Elijah’s chariot of fire ’twould be just the same.  That auto won’t be done this afternoon, and nobody expects it to be.  Here’s my horse sufferin’ to be shod; I want him shod and I’ve got the money to pay for it.  When it’s winter time you’re around cryin’ that you can’t earn money to pay your bills.  Now, just because it’s summer and there’s city big-bugs in the neighborhood innocent enough to let you tinker with their autos—­though they’ll never do it but once—­I don’t propose to be put off.  If you won’t shoe this horse of mine I’ll know it’s because you’ve got so much money you don’t need more.  And if that’s the case, there’s a whole lot of folks would be mighty glad to know it—­Henry G. Goodspeed for one.  I’m goin’ up to his store now.  Shall I tell him?”

This was a shot in the bull’s-eye.  Mr. Ellis owed a number of bills, had owed them for a long time, and Mr. Goodspeed’s was by no means the smallest.  The loafers exchanged winks, and the blacksmith’s manner became more conciliatory.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it for you, Seth,” he pleaded.  “I’m always willin’ to do your work.  You’re the one that’s been complainin’.”

“Ugh!  Well, I’m likely to complain some more, but the complaint’s one thing, and the need’s another.  I’m like Joel Knowles—­he said when he couldn’t get whisky he worried along best he could with bay rum.  I need a blacksmith, and if I can’t get a real one I’ll put up with an imitation.  Will you shoe this horse for me?”