“Things have been bad with me,” the smith continued. “My wife, she died Thursday before breakfast, and one thing and another. A son has charge of a coaling gang on Allen Mountain, but I'm too heavy for that; and I was going down to Green Forge when I thought I'd stop and see Jim. But, hell!—Jim's gone; like as not on the Glory-wagon. I can get a place at any hearth,” he declared pridefully. “I'm a good forger; none better in Hamilton County. When it's shingling a loop I can show 'em all!” “Have some supper,” Alexander Hulings offered. They sat late into the mild night, with the moonlight patterned like a grey carpet at their feet, talking about the smithing of iron. Conrad Wishon revealed the practical grasp of a life capably spent at a single task, and Hulings questioned him with an increasing comprehension. “If you had money,” Wishon explained, “we could do something right here. I'd like to work old Tubal Cain. I understand her.” The other asked: “How much would it take?” Conrad Wishon spread out his hands hopelessly. “A lot; and then a creekful back of that! Soon as Wooddrop heard the hammer trip, he'd be around to close you down. Do it in a hundred ways—no teaming principally.” Hillings' antagonism to John Wooddrop increased perceptibly; he became obsessed by the fantastic thought of founding himself—Tubal Cain—triumphantly in the face of the established opposition. But he had nothing—no money, knowledge, or even a robust person. Yet his will to succeed in the valleys hardened into a concrete aim.... Conrad Wishon would be invaluable. The latter stayed through the night and even lingered, after breakfast, into the morning. He was reluctant to leave the familiar scene of long toil. They were sitting lost in discussion when the beat of horses' hoofs was arrested on the road, and a snapping of underbrush announced the appearance of a young man with a keen, authoritative countenance. “Mr. James Claypole?” he asked, addressing them collectively. Alexander Hulings explained what he could of Claypole's absence. “It probably doesn't matter,” the other returned. “I was told the forge wasn't run, for some foolishness or other.” He turned to go. “What did you want with him—with Tubal Cain?” Conrad Wishon asked. “Twenty-five tons of blooms.” “Now if this was ten years back——” The young man interrupted the smith, with a gesture of impatience, and turned to go. Hulings asked Conrad Wishon swiftly: “Could it be done here? Could the men be got? And what would it cost?” “It could,” said Wishon; “they might, and a thousand dollars would perhaps see it through.” Hulings sharply called the retreating figure back. “Something more about this twenty-five tons,” he demanded. “For the Penn Rolling Mills,” the other crisply replied. “We're asking for delivery in five weeks, but that might be extended a little—at, of course, a loss on the ton. The quality must be first grade.” Wishon grunted.