“Being as you’re from New York, maybe you can decide a little bet Sandy here wants to have with somebody.”
Sandy, quick to take the hint, picked up the bar that always lay near enough the fire to be uncomfortably warm.
“How much do you reckon that weighs?” he said, with critical nicety estimating its ounces in his swaying hand. Sandy had never done it better. There was a look of perfect innocence on his bland, unsophisticated countenance, and the crowd looked on in breathless suspense.
Bartlett was about to step forward and save his friend, but a wicked glare from Macdonald restrained him; besides, he felt, somehow, that his sympathies were with his neighbors, and not with the stranger he had brought among them. He thought resentfully that Yates might have been less high and mighty. In fact, when he asked him to come he had imagined his brilliancy would be instantly popular, and would reflect glory on himself. Now he fancied he was included in the general scorn Yates took such little pains to conceal.
Yates glanced at the piece of iron and, without taking his hands from his pockets, said carelessly:
“Oh, I should imagine it weighed a couple of pounds.”
“Heft it,” said Sandy beseechingly, holding it out to him.
“No, thank you,” replied Yates, with a smile. “Do you think I have never picked up a hot horseshoe before? If you are anxious to know its weight, why don’t you take it over to the grocery store and have it weighed?”
“‘Taint hot,” said Sandy, as he feebly smiled and flung the iron back on the forge. “If it was, I couldn’t have held it s’long.”
“Oh, no,” returned Yates, with a grin, “of course not. I don’t know what a blacksmith’s hands are, do I? Try something fresh.”
Macdonald saw there was no triumph over him among his crowd, for they all evidently felt as much involved in the failure of Sandy’s trick as he did himself; but he was sure that in future some man, hard pushed in argument, would fling the New Yorker at him. In the crisis he showed the instinct of a Napoleon.
“Well, boys,” he cried, “fun’s fun, but I’ve got to work. I have to earn my living, anyhow.”
Yates enjoyed his victory; they wouldn’t try “getting at” him again, he said to himself.
Macdonald strode to the forge and took out the bar of white-hot iron. He gave a scarcely perceptible nod to Sandy, who, ever ready with tobacco juice, spat with great directness on the top of the anvil. Macdonald placed the hot iron on the spot, and quickly smote it a stalwart blow with the heavy hammer. The result was appalling. An instantaneous spreading fan of apparently molten iron lit up the place as if it were a flash of lightning. There was a crash like the bursting of a cannon. The shop was filled for a moment with a shower of brilliant sparks, that flew like meteors to every corner of the place. Everyone was prepared for the explosion except Yates. He sprang back with a cry, tripped, and, without having time to get the use of his hands to ease his fall, tumbled and rolled to the horses’ heels. The animals, frightened by the report, stamped around; and Yates had to hustle on his hands and knees to safer quarters, exhibiting more celerity than dignity. The blacksmith never smiled, but everyone else roared. The reputation of the country was safe. Sandy doubled himself up in his boisterous mirth.