“’E be the best smith in the South Country!” nodded Simon.

“Ay, an’ a bad man to work for as ever was!” growled Job.  “I’ll work for ‘e no more; my mind’s made up, an’ when my mind’s made up theer bean’t no movin’ me—­like a rock I be!”

“‘Twould ha’ been a fine thing for a Siss’n’urst man to ha’ mended t’ owd screen!” said the Ancient.

“’Twould that!” nodded Simon, “a shame it is as it should go to others.”

Hereupon, having finished my ale, I rose.

“Be you’m a-goin’, young maister?” inquired the Ancient.

“Why, that depends,” said I.  “I understand that this man, Black George, needs a helper, so I have decided to go and offer my services.”

“You!” exclaimed Job, staring in open-mouthed amazement, as did also the other two.

“Why not?” I rejoined.  “Black George needs a helper, and I need money.”

“My chap,” said Job warningly, “don’t ye do it.  You be a tidy, sizable chap, but Black Jarge ud mak’ no more o’ you than I should of a babby—­don’t ye do it.”

“Better not,” said Simon.

“On the contrary,” I returned, “better run a little bodily risk and satisfy one’s hunger, rather than lie safe but famishing beneath some hedge or rick—­what do you think, Ancient?”

The old man leaned forward and peered up at me sharply beneath his hanging brows.

“Well?” said I.

“You’m right!” he nodded, “and a man wi’ eyes the like o’ yourn bean’t one as ’tis easy to turn aside, even though it do be Black Jarge as tries.”

“Then,” said Job, as I took up my staff, “if your back’s broke, my chap—­why, don’t go for to blame me, that’s all!  You be a sight too cocksure—­ah, that you be!”

“I’m thinkin’ Black Jarge would find this chap a bit different to Job,” remarked the Ancient.  “What do ’ee think, Simon?”

“Looks as if ’e might take a good blow, ah! and give one, for that matter,” returned the Innkeeper, studying me with half-closed eyes, and his head to one side, as I have seen artists look at pictures.  “He be pretty wide in the shoulders, and full in the chest, and, by the look of him, quick on ’is pins.”

“You’ve been a fightin’ man, Simon, and you ought to know—­but he’ve got summat better still.”

“And what might that be, Gaffer?” inquired the Innkeeper.

“A good, straight, bright eye, Simon, wi’ a look in it as says, ‘I will!’”

“Ah! but what o’ Jarge?” cried Job.  “Black Jarge don’t mind a man’s eyes, ’cept to black frequent; ‘e don’t mind nothin’, nor nobody.”

“Job,” said the Ancient, tapping his snuff-box, “theer’s some things as is better nor gert, big muscles, and gert, strong fists—­if you wasn’t a danged fule you’d know what I mean.  Young man,” he went on, turning to me, “you puts me in mind o’ what I were at your age though, to be sure, I were taller ’n you by about five or six inches, maybe more—­but don’t go for to be too cock-sure for all that.  Black Jarge aren’t to be sneezed at.”