At the end of the wall was a rough boarded fence, in contact with it, and reaching, some fifty yards or so, to a hovel in which a blacksmith, of unknown antecedents, had taken possession of a forsaken forge, and did what odd jobs came in his way. The boys went along the fence till they came to the forge, where, looking in, they saw the blacksmith working his bellows. To one with the instincts of Clare’s birth and breeding, he did not look a desirable acquaintance. Tommy was less fastidious, but he felt that the scowl on the man’s brows boded little friendliness. Clare, however, who hardly knew what fear was, did not hesitate to go in, for he was drawn as with a cart-rope by the glow of the fire, and the sparks which, as they gazed, began, like embodied joys, to fly merrily from the iron. Tommy followed, keeping Clare well between him and the black-browed man, who rained his blows on the rosy iron in his pincers, as if he hated it. “What do you want, gutter-toads?” he cried, glancing up and seeing them approach. “This ain’t a hotel.” [Illustration: THE BLACKSMITH GIVES CLARE AND TOMMY A ROUGH GREETING.] “But it’s a splendid fire,” rejoined Clare, looking into his face with a wan smile, “and we’re so cold!” “What’s that to me!” returned the man, who, savage about something, was ready to quarrel with anything. “I didn’t make my fire to warm little devils that better had never been born!” “No, sir,” answered Clare; “but I don’t think we’d better not have been born. We’re both cold, and nobody but Tommy knows how hungry I am; but your fire is so beautiful that, if you would let us stand beside it a minute or two, we wouldn’t at all mind.” “Mind, indeed! Mind what, you preaching little humbug?” “Mind being born, sir.” “Why do you say _sir_ to me? Don’t you see I’m a working man?” “Yes, and that’s why. I think we ought to say _sir_ and _ma’am_ to every one that can do something we can’t. Tommy and I can’t make iron do what we please, and you can, sir! It would be a grand thing for us if we could!” “Oh, yes, a grand thing, no doubt!--Why?” “Because then we could get something to eat, and somewhere to lie down.” “Could you? Look at me, now! I can do the work of two men, and can’t get work for half a man!” “That’s a sad pity!” said Clare. “I wish I had work! Then I would bring you something to eat.” The man did not tell them why he had not work enough--that his drunkenness, and the bad ways to which it had brought him, with the fact that he so often dawdled over the work that was given him, caused people to avoid him. “Who said I hadn’t enough to eat? I ain’t come to that yet, young ’un! What made you say that?” “Because when I had work, I had plenty to eat; and now that I have nothing to do, I have nothing to eat. It’s well I haven’t work now, though,” added Clare with a sigh, “for I’m too tired to do any. Please may I sit on this heap of ashes?”