“Grandfather,” said Richard, “I shouldn’t like to have you for an enemy!”

“Why not, you rascal! Do you think I would take unfair advantage of you?”

“No. But you’ve got awful arms and hands!”

“They’ve done a job or two in their day, lad!” he answered. “But I’m getting old now. I can’t do what I once thought nothing of! Well, no man was made to last forever—no more than a horseshoe! There’d be no work for the Maker if he did!”

While they talked the blacksmith had taken off his thick leather apron, and now picked up Richard’s case as if it had been a handbasket, and led the way to a cottage not far from his shop. It was a humble enough place—one story with a wide attic. The front was almost covered with jasmine, rising from a little garden filled with cottage flowers. Behind was a larger garden full of cabbages and gooseberry bushes.

A girl came to the door, with a kind, blushing face and hands as red as her cheeks—a great-niece of the old smith. He passed her and led the way into a room which was half kitchen, half parlour.

“Here you are, lad—at home, I hope! Such as it is—and as much as it’s mine, it’s yours, and I hope you’ll make it so.”

He deposited the case, put on the water, and then sat down with Richard. They had tea together, with bread and butter and marmalade, and much talk about John and Jane Tuke. When the subject of bookbinding came up, Richard was surprised to discover that the blacksmith regarded it as quite an inferior and hardly a manly trade. To the blacksmith, bookbinding and tailoring were fit only for women. Not relishing his notions, Richard tried to make him see the dignity of the work.

“The difficulty is greater because of the lesser strength required,” he said. “The strength itself, in certain of its operations, has to be finely scaled back and modified with extreme accuracy, while in others, all the strength a man has is necessary, especially in a shop like ours where everything is done by hand. But the fine, delicate work,” he said, “is most tiring of all. Although I do wish I could shoe a horse as well!”

“What’s to stop you?”

“Will you let me learn, grandfather?”

“Let you learn! I’ll teach you myself. And you’ll learn soon. It’s not as if you’re a bumpkin to teach. The man who can do anything, can do everything!”

“Come along then, grandfather. I want you to see that though my hands may get a blister or two, they’re not the less fit for hard work that they can do delicate work. But you must have patience with me!”

“Nay, lad, I’ll have great patience with you. Before many days are over, I’ll wager you’ll make the shoes like you were a smith yourself. But to shoe a horse as the horse ought to be shod, that comes only by God’s grace.”