Part 27 (1/2)

He turned upon me quite fiercely, hammer in hand, making me think about Wat Tyler and the tax-gatherer; but he did not strike me: he brought his hammer down upon the anvil with a loud clang.

”Nay,” he said; ”I nivver touched no bands. It warn't my wuck.”

”Well, I never thought it was,” I said. ”You don't look the sort of man who would be a coward.”

”Oh, that's what you think, is it, lad?”

”Yes,” I said, seating myself on the bench and stroking the kitten. ”A blacksmith always seems to me to be a bold manly straightforward man, who would fight his enemy fairly face to face, and not go in the dark and stab him.”

”Ah!” he said; ”but I arn't a blacksmith, I'm a white-smith, and work in steel.”

”It's much the same,” I said thoughtfully; and then, looking him full in the face: ”No, Pannell, I don't think you cut the bands, but I feel pretty sure you know who did.”

The man's jaw dropped, and he looked quite paralysed for a moment or two. Then half recovering himself he plunged his tongs into the fire, pulled out a sputtering white piece of glowing steel, gave it his regular whirl through the air like a firework, and, instead of banging it on to the anvil, plunged it with a fierce toss into the iron water-trough, and quenched it.

”Why, Pannell!” I cried, ”what made you do that?”

He scratched his head with the hand that held the hammer, and stared at me for a few moments, and then down at the black steel that he had taken dripping from the trough.

”Dunno,” he said hoa.r.s.ely, ”dunno, lad.”

”I do,” I said to myself as I set down the kitten and went back to join my uncles, who were in consultation in the office.

They stopped short as I entered, and Uncle Bob turned to me. ”Well, Philosopher Cob,” he said, ”what do you say? Who did this cowardly act--was it someone in the neighbourhood, or one of our own men?”

”Yes, who was it?” said Uncle d.i.c.k.

”We are all divided in our opinions,” said Uncle Jack.

”One of our own men,” I said; ”and Pannell the smith knows who it was.”

”And will he tell?”

”No. I think the men are like schoolboys in that. No one would speak for fear of being thought a sneak.”

”Yes,” said Uncle d.i.c.k, ”and not only that; in these trades-unions the men are all bound together, as it were, and the one who betrayed the others' secrets would be in peril of his life.”

”How are we to find out who is the scoundrel?” I said.

Uncle d.i.c.k shook his head, and did what he always found to be the most satisfactory thing in these cases, set to work as hard as he could, and Uncles Jack and Bob followed his example.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

ONLY A GLa.s.s OF WATER.

The keeping watch of a night had now grown into a regular business habit, and though we discovered nothing, the feeling was always upon us that if we relaxed our watchfulness for a few hours something would happen.

The paper stuck on the door was not forgotten by my uncles, but the men went on just as usual, and the workshops were as busy as ever, and after a good deal of drawing and experimenting Uncle d.i.c.k or Uncle Jack kept producing designs for knives or tools to be worked up out of the new steel.