"Job, what do you say to that?" shouted the blacksmith above the pulsating of the bellows, and with the sharp white lights of the leaping flames on his laughing face. "Say! That they're a pack of liars!" said the mason, catching up his untempered chisels and flinging out of the smithy. When he had gone, Gubblum removed his pipe and said calmly: "He's ower much like his Bible namesake in temper--that's the on'y fault of Job." The parson, in the field outside, had stood in the turn-rows, resting on his plow-handles. He had been drawling "Bonny lass, canny lass;" but, catching the sound of angry words, he had paused and listened. When Job, the mason, flung away, he returned to his plowing, and disappeared down the furrow, the boy whistling at his horse's head. "Why, Mattha, it is thee?" said the blacksmith, observing for the first time the second of the new-comers; "and how fend ye?" "Middling weel, John, middling weel," said Matthew, in a low voice, resting on the edge of the trough. It was Laird Fisher, more bent than of old, with deeper lines in his grave face and with yet more listless eyes. He had brought two picks for sharpening. "Got your smelting-house at wark down at the pit, Mattha?" asked the blacksmith. "Ey, John, it's at wark--it's at wark." The miller had turned to go, but he faced about with ready anger. "Lord, yes, and a pretty pickle you and your gaffer's like to make of me. Wad ye credit it, John? they've built their smelting-house within half a rod of my mill. Half a rod; not a yard mair. When your red-hot rubbish is shot down your bank, where's it going to go, ey? That's what I want to know--where's it going to go?" "Why, into your mill, of course," said Gubblum, with a wink, from the tool-chest. "That'll maybe help you to go by fire when you can't raise the wind." "Verra good for thee, Gubblum," laughed the blacksmith. "I'll have the law on them safe enough," said the miller. "And where's your damages to come from?" "From the same spot as all the rest of the brass--that's good enough for me." Matthew's voice followed the insinuating guffaw. "I spoke to Master Hugh yesterday. I telt him all you said about a wall." "Well?" "He won't build it." "Of course not. Why didsta not speak to Paul?" "No use in that," said Matthew, faintly. "Nay, young Hugh is a gaffer," exclaimed the blacksmith. "And Paul has no say in it except finding the brass, ey?" "I mak' no doubt as you're reet, Dick," said Matthew, meekly. "It's been just so since the day auld Allan died," said the blacksmith. "He hadn't been a week in his grave before Hugh bought up Mattha's royalty in the Hammer Hole, and began to sink for iron. He's never found much ore, as I've heard tell on, but he goes ahead laying down his pumping engines, and putting up his cranes, and boring his mill-races, just as if he was proper-ietor of a royal mine." "Hugh is the chain-horse, and Paul's no'but the mare in the shafts," said Gubblum.