Billy was a timid creature, and this blindfolding business rather scared him:  he had almost to be dragged within reach of these gaunt antennae.  But each time they got him to touch a grindstone, his body changed its character from shrinking and doubtful, to erect and energetic, and he applied his test.  This boy carried with him, night and day, a little wooden hammer, like an auctioneer’s, and with this he now tapped each stone several times, searching for the one he had denounced:  and, at each experiment, he begged the others to keep away from him and leave him alone with the subject of his experiment; which they did, and held up the lamp and threw the light on him.

Six heavy grindstones he tapped, and approved, three he even praised and called “good music.”

The seventh he struck twice, first gently, then hard and drew back from it, screaming “Oh, the bad music!  Oh, the wheel of death!” and tried to tear the handkerchief from his eyes.

“Be quiet, Billy,” said the visitor, calmly; and, putting his arm round the boy’s neck, drew him to his side, and detached the handkerchief, all in a certain paternal way that seemed to betoken a kindly disposition.  But, whilst he was doing this, he said to Henry, “Now—­you marked a stone in daylight; which was it?”

“No, no, I didn’t mark the stone, but I wrote on the wall just opposite.  Lend us the light, Bayne.  By George! here is my mark right opposite this stone.”

“Then Billy’s right.  Well done, Billy.”  He put his hand in his pocket and gave him a new shilling.  He then inquired of Bayne, with the air of a pupil seeking advice from a master, whether this discovery ought not to be acted upon.

“What would you suggest, sir?” asked Bayne, with equal deference.

“Oh, if I was sure I should not be considered presumptuous in offering my advice, I would say, Turn the stone into the yard, and bang a new one.  You have got three excellent ones outside; from Buckhurst quarry, by the look of them.”

“It shall be done, sir.”

This effective co-operation, on the part of a stranger, was naturally gratifying to Henry, and he said to him:  “I should be glad to ask you a question.  You seem to know a good deal about this trade—­”

A low chuckle burst out of Bayne, but he instantly suppressed it, for fear of giving offense—­

“Are serious accidents really common with these grindstones?”

“No, no,” said Bayne, “not common.  Heaven forbid.”

“They are not common—­in the newspapers,” replied the other.  “But” (to Bayne), “will you permit me to light these two gaslights for a moment?”

“Well, sir, it is contrary to our rules,—­but—­”