There was no house opposite the forge, and the doorway was full of sunshine, which streamed into the red glare of the furnace. Mr. Sumption stood in the mixing light, a tall black figure, leaning against the doorpost. He had smoothed his creased and grass-stained clothes a little, and taken out the straws that had stuck in his hair, but he always looked ill-shaved at the best of times, and to-day his face was nearly swallowed up in his beard. The smith was working single-hand, and had no time to stare at his visitor. He wondered a little who he was, for though he wore black clothes like a minister, he was in other respects more like a tramp. “Good afternoon,” said Mr. Sumption suddenly. “Good afternoon,” said the smith, hesitating whether he should add “sir,” but deciding not to. “You seem pretty busy.” “Reckon I am—unaccountable busy. I’m aloan now—my man went last week. Thought I wur saafe wud a man of forty-eight, but now they raise the age limit to fifty, and off he goes into the Veterinary Corps.” “Shall I give you a hand?” The smith stared. “I’ve done a lot of smith’s work,” continued Mr. Sumption eagerly. “There’s nothing I can’t do with hoof and iron.” The smith hesitated; then he saw the visitor’s arms as he took off his coat and began to roll up his sleeves. “Well, maybe ... if you know aught ... there’s the liddle cob thur wants a shoe.” A few men and boys were in the smithy, and they looked at each other and whispered a little. They had never seen such swingeing, hairy arms as Mr. Sumption’s. A smile was fighting its way across the stubble on the minister’s face. He cracked his joints with satisfaction, and soon the little cob was shod by as quick, as merciful, and as sure a hand as had ever touched him. His owner looked surprised. “I’d never taake you fur a smith,” he remarked; “leastways, not wud your coat on.” “I’m not a smith. I’m a Minister of the Gospel.” The men winked at each other and hid their mouths. Then one of them asked suddenly: “Are you the Rev. Mr. Sumption from Sunday Street?” “Reckon I am. Do you know me?” “I doan’t know you, surelye; but we’ve all heard as the minister of Sunday Street can shoe a horse wud any smith, and postwoman wur saying this marnun as he’d gone off nobody knows whur, after telling all his folk in a sermon as they’d started the War.” Mr. Sumption looked uncomfortable. “I only went for a bit of a tramp, and lost my way ... I’ve no call to be home before sundown—so, if you’ve any use for me, master, I can stop and give you a hand this afternoon.”