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 as a smith--" "Hum!" said I. "--and most of
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