The blacksmith’s forge stood just this side of the village as you entered it from Shepston, and David Blake, the smith, was blowing lustily at his bellows, while the sweat dripped down his face. The cool of a spring morning came through the doorway, against which leaned a heavy, slouching lad. “Te-he, David the Smith! Sparks do go scrambling up chimney,” said Billy the Fool, with a fat and empty laugh.…
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