“And, if you must ’it un,” added the Innkeeper, “why, go for the chin—­theer aren’t a better place to ’it a man than on the chin, if so be you can thump it right—­and ’ard enough.  I mind ’t was so I put out Tom Brock o’ Bedford—­a sweet, pretty blow it were too, though I do say it.”

“Thank you!” said I; “should it come to fighting, which Heaven forfend, I shall certainly remember your advice.”  Saying which, I turned away, and crossed the road to the open door of the smithy, very conscious of the three pairs of eyes that watched me as I went.

Upon the threshold of the forge I paused to look about me, and there, sure enough, was the smith.  Indeed a fine, big fellow he was, with great shoulders, and a mighty chest, and arms whose bulging muscles showed to advantage in the red glow of the fire.  In his left hand he grasped a pair of tongs wherein was set a glowing iron scroll, upon which he beat with the hammer in his right.  I stood watching until, having beaten out the glow from the iron, he plunged the scroll back into the fire, and fell to blowing with the bellows.  But now, as I looked more closely at him, I almost doubted if this could be Black George, after all, for this man’s hair was of a bright gold, and curled in tight rings upon his brow, while, instead of the black, scowling visage I had expected, I beheld a ruddy, open, well-featured face out of which looked a pair of eyes of a blue you may sometimes see in a summer sky at evening.  And yet again, his massive size would seem to proclaim him the famous Black George, and no other.  It was with something of doubt in my mind, nevertheless, that I presently stepped into the smithy and accosted him.

“Are you Black George?” I inquired.  At the sound of my voice, he let go the handle of the bellows, and turned; as I watched, I saw his brows draw suddenly together, while the golden hairs of his beard seemed to curl upward.

“Suppose I be?”

“Then I wish to speak with you.”

“Be that what you’m come for?”

“Yes.”

“Be you come far?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you’ll ’ave a good way to go back again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, I means as I don’t like your looks, my chap.”

And why don’t you like my looks?”

“Lord!” exclaimed the smith, “’ow should I know—­but I don’t—­of that I’m sartin sure.”

“Which reminds me,” said I, “of a certain unpopular gentleman of the name of Fell, or Pell, or Snell.”

“Eh?” said the smith, staring.

“There is a verse, I remember, which runs, I think, in this wise: 

  “’I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, or Pell, or Snell,
    For reasons which I cannot tell;
    But this I know, and know full well,
    I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, or Pell, or Snell.’”

“So you’m a poet, eh?”