So saying, I rose and stepped out into the middle of the floor.  Black George eyed me slowly up from the soles of my boots to the crown of my hat and down again, picked up his hammer in an undecided fashion, looked it over as if he had never seen such a thing before, tossed it into a corner, and, seating himself on the anvil, folded his arms.  All at once a merry twinkle leapt into the blue depths of his eyes, and I saw the swift gleam of a smile.

“What do ’ee want—­man?” said he.

Now hereupon, with a sudden gesture, I pitched my staff out through the open doorway into the road, and folded my arms across my chest, even as he.

“Why did ’ee do that?” he inquired, staring.

“Because I don’t think I shall need it, after all.”

“But suppose I was to come for ’ee now?”

“But you won’t.”

“You be a strange sort o’ chap!” said he, shaking his head.

“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?”