CHAPTER VI IN WHICH I LEARN OF AN IMPENDING DANGER
I am at the forge, watching the deepening glow of the coals as I ply the bellows; and, listening to their hoarse, not unmusical drone, it seems like a familiar voice (or the voice of a familiar), albeit a somewhat wheezy one, speaking to me in stertorous gasps, something in this wise:
"Charmian Brown—desires to thank—Mr. Smith—but because thanks—are so poor and small—and his service so great—needs must she remember him—"
"Remember me!" said I aloud, and, letting go the shaft of the bellows the better to think this over, it naturally followed that the bellows grew suddenly dumb, whereupon I seized the handle and recommenced blowing with a will.
"—remember him as a gentleman," wheezed the familiar.
"Psha!" I exclaimed.
"—yet oftener
