In the Midst of Alarms by Robert Barr

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This must have meant something significant, but the blacksmith never
took anyone into his confidence; and "down East" is a vague place, a
sort of indefinite, unlocalized no-man's-land, situated anywhere
between Toronto and Quebec. Almost anything might have happened in such
a space of country. Macdonald's favorite way of crushing an opponent
was to say: "When you've had some of my experiences, young man, you'll
know better'n to talk like that." All this gave a certain fascination
to friendship with the blacksmith; and the farmers' boys felt that they
were playing with fire when in his company, getting, as it were, a
glimpse of the dangerous side of life. As for work, the blacksmith
reveled in it, and made it practically his only vice. He did everything
with full steam on, and was, as has been said, a constant reproach to
loafers all over the country. When there was no work to do, he made
work. When there was work to do, he did it with a rush, sweeping the
sweat from his grimy brow with his hooked fore finger, and flecking it
to the floor with a flirt of the right hand, loose on the wrist, in a
way that made his thumb and fore finger snap together like the crack of
a whip. This action was always accompanied with a long-drawn breath,
almost a sigh, that seemed to say: "I wish I had the easy times you
fellows have." In fact, since he came to the neighborhood the current
phrase, "He works like a steer" had given way to, "He works like
Macdonald," except with the older people, who find it hard to change
phrases. Yet everyone liked the blacksmith, and took no special offense
at his untiring industry, looking at it rather as an example to others.

He did not look up as the two newcomers entered, but industriously
pared down the hoof with a curiously formed knife turned like a hook at
the point, burned in the shoe to its place, nailed it on, and rasped
the hoof into shape with a long, broad file. Not till he let the foot
drop on the earthen floor, and slapped the impatient horse on the
flank, did he deign to answer young Bartlett's inquiry.

"No," he said, wringing the perspiration from his forehead, "all these
horses aint ahead of you, and you won't need to come next week. That's
the last hoof of the last horse. No man needs to come to my shop and go
away again, while the breath of life is left in me. And I don't do it,
either, by sitting on a bench and whittling a stick."

"That's so. That's so," said Sandy, chuckling, in the admiring tone of
one who intimated that, when the boss spoke, wisdom was uttered.
"That's one on you, Sam."

"I guess I can stand it, if he can," said the whittler from the bench;
which was considered fair repartee.

"Sit it, you mean," said young Bartlett, laughing with the others at
his own joke.

"But," said the blacksmith severely, "we're out of shoes, and you'll
have to wait till we turn some, that is, if you don't want the old ones
reset. Are they good enough?"

"I guess so, if you can find 'em; but they're out in the fields. Didn't
think I'd bring the horses in while they held on, did you?" Then,
suddenly remembering his duties, he said by, way of general
introduction: "Gentlemen, this is my friend Mr. Yates from New York."

The name seemed to fall like a wet blanket on the high spirits of the
crowd. They had imagined from the cut of his clothes that he was a
storekeeper from some village around, or an auctioneer from a distance,
these two occupations being the highest social position to which a man
might attain. They were prepared to hear that he was from Welland, or
perhaps St. Catherines; but New York! that was a crusher. Macdonald,
however, was not a man to be put down in his own shop and before his
own admirers. He was not going to let his prestige slip from him merely
because a man from New York had happened along. He could not claim to
know the city, for the stranger would quickly detect the imposture and
probably expose him; but the slightly superior air which Yates wore
irritated him, while it abashed the others. Even Sandy was silent.

"I've met some people from New York down East," he said in an offhand
manner, as if, after all, a man might meet a New Yorker and still not
sink into the ground.

"Really?" said Yates. "I hope you liked them."

"Oh, so-so," replied the blacksmith airily. "There's good and bad among
them, like the rest of us."

"Ah, you noticed that," said Yates. "Well, I've often thought the same
myself. It's a safe remark to make; there is generally no disputing
it."

The condescending air of the New Yorker was maddening, and Macdonald
realized that he was losing ground. The quiet insolence of Yates' tone
was so exasperating to the blacksmith that he felt any language at his
disposal inadequate to cope with it. The time for the practical joke
had arrived. The conceit of this man must be taken down. He would try
Sandy's method, and, if that failed, it would at least draw attention
from himself to his helper.

"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.

"There's no one like the old man!" he shouted. "Oh, lordy! lordy! He's
all wool, and a yard wide."

Yates picked himself up and dusted himself off, laughing with the rest
of them.

"If I ever knew that trick before, I had forgotten it. That's one on
me, as this youth in spasms said a moment ago. Blacksmith, shake! I'll
treat the crowd, if there's a place handy."

CHAPTER XI.

People who have but a superficial knowledge of the life and times here
set down may possibly claim that the grocery store, and not the
blacksmith's shop, used to be the real country club--the place where
the politics of the country were discussed; where the doings of great
men were commended or condemned, and the government criticised. It is
true that the grocery store was the club of the village, when a place
like the Corners grew to be a village; but the blacksmith's shop was
usually the first building erected on the spot where a village was
ultimately to stand. It was the nucleus. As a place grew, and
enervating luxury set in, the grocery store slowly supplanted the
blacksmith's shop, because people found a nail keg, or a box of
crackers, more comfortable to sit on than the limited seats at their
disposal in a smithy; moreover, in winter the store, with its red-hot
box stove, was a place of warmth and joy, but the reveling in such an
atmosphere of comfort meant that the members of the club had to live
close at hand, for no man would brave the storms of a Canadian winter
night, and journey a mile or two through the snow, to enjoy even the
pleasures of the store. So the grocery was essentially a village club,
and not a rural club.

Of course, as civilization advanced, the blacksmith found it impossible
to compete with the grocer. He could not offer the same inducements.
The grocery approached more nearly than the smithy the grateful
epicurism of the Athenaeum, the Reform, or the Carlton. It catered to
the appetite of man, besides supplying him with the intellectual
stimulus of debate. A box of soda crackers was generally open, and,
although such biscuits were always dry, they were good to munch, if
consumed slowly. The barrel of hazel nuts never had a lid on. The
raisins, in their square box, with blue-tinted paper, setting forth the
word "Malaga" under the colored picture of joyous Spanish grape
pickers, stood on the shelves behind the counter, at an angle suited to
display the contents to all comers, requiring an exceptionally long
reach, and more than an ordinary amount of cheek, before they were got
at; but the barrel of Muscavado brown sugar was where everyone could
dip his hand in; while the man on the keg of tenpenny nails might
extend his arm over into the display window, where the highly colored
candies exhibited themselves, although the person who meddled often
with them was frowned upon, for it was etiquette in the club not to
purloin things which were expensive. The grocer himself drew the line
at the candies, and a second helping usually brought forth the mild
reproof:

"Shall I charge that, Sam; or would you rather pay for it now?"

All these delicacies were taken in a somewhat surreptitious way, and
the takers generally wore an absent-minded look, as if the purloining
was not quite intentional on their part. But they were all good
customers of the grocer, and the abstractions were doubtless looked on
by him as being in the way of trade; just as the giving of a present
with a pound of tea, or a watch with a suit of clothes, became in later
days. Be that as it may, he never said anything unless his generosity
was taken advantage of, which was rarely the case.

Very often on winter nights there was a hilarious feast, that helped to
lighten the shelves and burden the till. This ordinarily took the form
of a splurge in cove oysters. Cove oysters came from Baltimore, of
course, in round tins; they were introduced into Canada long before the
square tin boxes that now come in winter from the same bivalvular city.
Cove oysters were partly cooked before being tinned, so that they
would, as the advertisements say, keep in any climate. They did not
require ice around them, as do the square tins which now contain the
raw oysters. Someone present would say:

"What's the matter with having a feed of cove oysters?"

He then collected a subscription of ten cents or so from each member,
and the whole was expended in several cans of oysters and a few pounds
of crackers. The cooking was done in a tin basin on the top of the hot
stove. The contents of the cans were emptied into this handy dish, milk
was added, and broken crackers, to give thickness and consistency to
the result. There were always plenty of plates, for the store supplied
the crockery of the neighborhood. There were also plenty of spoons, for
everything was to be had at the grocery. What more could the most
exacting man need? On a particularly reckless night the feast ended
with several tins of peaches, which needed no cooking, but only a
sprinkling of sugar. The grocer was always an expert at cooking cove
oysters and at opening tins of peaches.

There was a general feeling among the members that, by indulging in
these banquets, they were going the pace rather; and some of the older
heads feebly protested against the indulgence of the times, but it was
noticed that they never refrained from doing their share when it came
to spoon work.

"A man has but one life to live," the younger and more reckless would
say, as if that excused the extravagance; for a member rarely got away
without being fifteen cents out of pocket, especially when they had
peaches as well as oysters.

The grocery at the Corners had been but recently established and as yet
the blacksmith's shop had not looked upon it as a rival. Macdonald was
monarch of all he surveyed, and his shop was the favorite gathering
place for miles around. The smithy was also the patriotic center of the
district, as a blacksmith's shop must be as long as anvils can take the
place of cannon for saluting purposes. On the 24th of May, the queen's
birthday, celebrated locally as the only day in the year, except
Sundays, when Macdonald's face was clean and when he did no work, the
firing of the anvils aroused the echoes of the locality. On that great
day the grocer supplied the powder, which was worth three York
shillings a pound--a York shilling being sixpence halfpenny. It took
two men to carry an anvil, with a good deal of grunting; but Macdonald,
if the crowd were big enough, made nothing of picking it up, hoisting
it on his shoulder, and flinging it down on the green in front of his
shop. In the iron mass there is a square hole, and when the anvil was
placed upside down, the hole was uppermost. It was filled with powder,
and a wooden plug, with a notch cut in it, was pounded in with a sledge
hammer. Powder was sprinkled from the notch over the surface of the
anvil, and then the crowd stood back and held its breath. It was a most
exciting moment. Macdonald would come running out of the shop
bareheaded, holding a long iron bar, the wavering, red-hot end of which
descended on the anvil, while the blacksmith shouted in a terrifying
voice: "Look out, there!" The loose powder hissed and spat for a
moment, then bang went the cannon, and a great cloud of smoke rolled
upward, while the rousing cheers came echoing back from the surrounding
forests. The helper, with the powder-horn, would spring to the anvil
and pour the black explosive into the hole, while another stood ready
with plug and hammer. The delicious scent of burned gunpowder filled
the air, and was inhaled by all the youngsters with satisfaction, for
now they realized what real war was. Thus the salutes were fired, and
thus the royal birthday was fittingly celebrated.

Where two anvils were to be had, the cannonade was much brisker, as
then a plug was not needed. The hole in the lower anvil was filled with
powder, and the other anvil was placed over it. This was much quicker
than pounding in a plug, and had quite as striking and detonating an
effect. The upper anvil gave a heave, like Mark Twain's shot-laden
frog, and fell over on its side. The smoke rolled up as usual, and the
report was equally gratifying.

Yates learned all these things as he sat in the blacksmith's shop, for
they were still in the month of May, and the smoke of the echoing
anvils had hardly yet cleared away. All present were eager to tell him
of the glory of the day. One or two were good enough to express regret
that he had not been there to see. After the disaster which had
overturned Yates things had gone on very smoothly, and he had become
one of the crowd, as it were. The fact that he was originally a
Canadian told in his favor, although he had been contaminated by long
residence in the States.

Macdonald worked hard at the turning of horseshoes from long rods of
iron. Usually an extended line of unfinished shoes bestrode a blackened
scantling, like bodiless horsemen, the scantling crossing the shop
overhead, just under the roof. These were the work of Macdonald's
comparatively leisure days, and they were ready to be fitted to the
hoofs of any horse that came to be shod, but on this occasion there had
been such a run on his stock that it was exhausted, a depletion the
smith seemed to regard as a reproach on himself, for he told Yates
several times that he often had as many as three dozen shoes up aloft
for a rainy day.

When the sledge hammer work was to be done, one of those present
stepped forward and swung the heavy sledge, keeping stroke for stroke
with Macdonald's one-handed hammer, all of which required a nice ear
for time. This assistance was supposed to be rendered by Sandy; but, as
he remarked, he was no hog, and anyone who wished to show his skill was
at liberty to do so. Sandy seemed to spend most of his time at the
bellows, and when he was not echoing the sentiments of the boss, as he
called him, he was commending the expertness of the _pro tem._
amateur, the wielder of the sledge. It was fun to the amateur, and it
was an old thing with Sandy, so he never protested against this
interference with his duty, believing in giving everyone a chance,
especially when it came to swinging a heavy hammer. The whole scene
brought back to Yates the days of his youth, especially when Macdonald,
putting the finishing strokes to his shoe, let his hammer periodically
tinkle with musical clangor on the anvil, ringing forth a
tintinnabulation that chimed melodiously on the ear--a sort of anvil-
chorus accompaniment to his mechanical skill. He was a real sleight-of-
hand man, and the anvil was his orchestra.

Yates soon began to enjoy his visit to the rural club. As the members
thawed out he found them all first-rate fellows, and, what was more,
they were appreciative listeners. His stories were all evidently new to
them, and nothing puts a man into a genial frame of mind so quickly as
an attentive, sympathetic audience. Few men could tell a story better
than Yates, but he needed the responsive touch of interested hearers.
He hated to have to explain the points of his anecdotes, as, indeed,
what story-teller does not? A cold and critical man like the professor
froze the spring of narration at its source. Besides, Renmark had an
objectionable habit of tracing the recital to its origin; it annoyed
Yates to tell a modern yarn, and then discover that Aristophanes, or
some other prehistoric poacher on the good things men were to say, had
forestalled him by a thousand years or so. When a man is quick to see
the point of your stories, and laughs heartily at them, you are apt to
form a high opinion of his good sense, and to value his companionship.

When the horses were shod, and young Bartlett, who was delighted at the
impression Yates had made, was preparing to go, the whole company
protested against the New Yorker's departure. This was real flattery.

"What's your hurry, Bartlett?" asked the whittler. "You can't do
anything this afternoon, if you do go home. It's a poor time this to
mend a bad day's work. If you stay, he'll stay; won't you, Mr. Yates?
Macdonald is going to set tires, and he needs us all to look on and see
that he does it right; don't you, Mac?"

"Yes; I get a lot of help from you while there's a stick to whittle,"
replied the smith.

"Then there's the protracted meeting to-night at the schoolhouse," put
in another, anxious that all the attractions of the place should be
brought forward.

"That's so," said the whittler; "I had forgotten about that. It's the
first night, so we must all be there to encourage old Benderson. You'll
be on hand to-night, won't you, Macdonald?"

The blacksmith made no answer, but turned to Sandy and asked him
savagely what in ---- and ---nation he was standing gawking there for. Why
didn't he go outside and get things ready for the tire setting? What in
thunder was he paying him for, anyhow? Wasn't there enough loafers
round, without him joining the ranks?

Sandy took this rating with equanimity, and, when the smith's back was
turned, he shrugged his shoulders, took a fresh bite of tobacco from
the plug which he drew from his hip pocket, winking at the others as he
did so. He leisurely followed Macdonald out of the shop, saying in a
whisper as he passed the whittler:

"I wouldn't rile the old man, if I were you."

The club then adjourned to the outside, all except those who sat on the
bench. Yates asked:

"What's the matter with Macdonald? Doesn't he like protracted meetings?
And, by the way, what are protracted meetings?"

"They're revival meetings--religious meetings, you know, for converting
sinners."

"Really?" said Yates. "But why protracted? Are they kept on for a week
or two?"

"Yes; I suppose that's why, although, to tell the truth, I never knew
the reason for the name. Protracted meetings always stood for just the
same thing ever since I was a boy, and we took it as meaning that one
thing, without thinking why."

"And doesn't Macdonald like them?"

"Well, you see, it's like this: He never wants to go to a protracted
meeting, yet he can't keep away. He's like a drunkard and the corner
tavern. He can't pass it, and he knows if he goes in he will fall.
Macdonald's always the first one to go up to the penitent bench. They
rake him in every time. He has religion real bad for a couple of weeks,
and then he backslides. He doesn't seem able to stand either the
converting or the backsliding. I suppose some time they will gather him
in finally, and he will stick and become a class leader, but he hasn't
stuck up to date."

"Then he doesn't like to hear the subject spoken of?"

"You bet he don't. It isn't safe to twit him about it either. To tell
the truth, I was pleased when I heard him swear at Sandy; then I knew
it was all right, and Sandy can stand it. Macdonald is a bad man to
tackle when he's mad. There's nobody in this district can handle him.
I'd sooner get a blow from a sledge hammer than meet Mac's fist when
his dander is up. But so long as he swears it's all right. Say, you'll
stay down for the meeting, won't you?"

"I think I will. I'll see what young Bartlett intends to do. It isn't
very far to walk, in any case."

"There will be lots of nice girls going your way to-night after the
meeting. I don't know but I'll jog along in that direction myself when
it's over. That's the principal use I have for the meetings, anyhow."

The whittler and Yates got down from the bench, and joined the crowd
outside. Young Bartlett sat on one of the horses, loath to leave while
the tire setting was going on.

"Are you coming, Yates?" he shouted, as his comrade appeared.

"I think I'll stay for the meeting," said Yates, approaching him and
patting the horse. He had no desire for mounting and riding away in the
presence of that critical assemblage.

"All right," said young Bartlett. "I guess I'll be down at the meeting,
too; then I can show you the way home."

"Thanks," said Yates; "I'll be on the lookout for you."

Young Bartlett galloped away, and was soon lost to sight in a cloud of
dust. The others had also departed with their shod horses; but there
were several new arrivals, and the company was augmented rather than
diminished. They sat around on the fence, or on the logs dumped down by
the wayside.

Few smoked, but many chewed tobacco. It was a convenient way of using
the weed, and required no matches, besides being safer for men who had
to frequent inflammable barns.

A circular fire burned in front of the shop, oak bark being the main
fuel used. Iron wagon tires lay hidden in this burning circle.
Macdonald and Sandy bustled about making preparations, their faces,
more hideous in the bright sunlight than in the comparative obscurity
of the shop, giving them the appearance of two evil spirits about to
attend some incantation scene of which the circular fire was the
visible indication. Crosstrees, of four pieces of squared timber, lay
near the fire, with a tireless wheel placed flat upon them, the hub in
the square hole at the center. Shiftless farmers always resisted having
tires set until they would no longer stay on the wheel. The inevitable
day was postponed, time and again, by a soaking of the wheels
overnight in some convenient puddle of water; but as the warmer and
dryer weather approached this device, supplemented by wooden wedges, no
longer sufficed, and the tires had to be set for summer work.
Frequently the tire rolled off on the sandy highway, and the farmer was
reluctantly compelled to borrow a rail from the nearest fence, and
place it so as to support the axle; he then put the denuded wheel and
its tire on the wagon, and drove slowly to the nearest blacksmith's
shop, his vehicle "trailing like a wounded duck," the rail leaving a
snake's track behind it on the dusty road.

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