“I have translated Petronius Arbiter, also Quintilian, with a literal rendering into the English of the Memoires of the Sieur de Brantome.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the smith, “that sounds a lot! anything more?”

“Yes,” I answered; “I won the High Jump, and Throwing the Hammer.”

“Throwin’ th’ ’ammer!” repeated Black George musingly; “was it anything like that theer?” And he pointed to a sledge near, by.

“Something,” I answered.

“And you want work?”

“I do.”

“Tell ’ee what, my fellow, if you can throw that theer ’ammer further nor me, then I’ll say, ‘Done,’ and you can name your own wages, but if I beat you, and I’m fair sure I can, then you must stand up to me for ten minutes, and I’ll give ’ee a good trouncin’ to ease my mind—­what d’ye say?”

After a momentary hesitation, I nodded my head.

“Done!” said I.

“More fool you!” grinned the smith, and, catching up his sledge-hammer, he strode out into the road.

Before “The Bull” a small crowd had gathered, all newly come from field or farmyard, for most of them carried rake or pitchfork, having doubtless been drawn thither by the hellish outcry of Black George and myself.  Now I noticed that while they listened to the Ancient, who was holding forth, snuff-box in hand, yet every eye was turned towards the smithy, and in every eye was expectation.  At our appearance, however, I thought they seemed, one and all, vastly surprised and taken aback, for heads were shaken, and glances wandered from the smith and myself to the Ancient, and back again.

“Well, I’ll be danged!” exclaimed Job.

“I knowed it!  I knowed it!” cried the Ancient, rubbing his hands and chuckling.

“Knowed what, Gaffer?” inquired Black George, as we came up.

“Why, I knowed as this young chap would come out a-walkin’ ’pon his own two legs, and not like Job, a-rollin’ and a-wallerin’ in the dust o’ th’ road—­like a hog.”

“Why, y’ see, Gaffer,” began the smith, almost apologetically it seemed to me, “it do come sort o’ nat’ral to heave the likes o’ Job about a bit—­Job’s made for it, y’ might say, but this chap ’s different.”

“So ’e be, Jarge—­so ’e be!” nodded the Ancient.

“Though, mark me, Gaffer, I aren’t nohow in love wi’ this chap neither—­’e gabs too much to suit me, by a long sight!”

“’E do that!” chimed in Job, edging nearer; “what I sez is, if ’e do get ’is back broke, ’e aren’t got nobody to blame but ’isself —­so cocksure as ’e be.”

“Job,” said the Ancient, “hold thee tongue.”

“I sez ‘e’s a cocksure cove,” repeated Job doggedly, “an’ a cocksure cove ’e be; what do ’ee think, Jarge?”

“Job,” returned the smith, “I don’t chuck a man into t’ road and talk wi’ ’im both in the same day.”

In this conversation I bore no part, busying myself in drawing out a wide circle in the dust, a proceeding watched by the others with much interest, and not a few wondering comments.