“Come!” he cried; “you're a man after all, bookbinder! In six months I should have you a thorough blacksmith.”
“I wouldn't undertake to make a bookbinder of you, grandfather, in the time!” returned Richard.
“Tit for tat, sonny, and it's fair!” said Simon. “I should leave the devil his mark on your white pages.—How much of them do you rend now, as you stick them together?”
“Not a word as I stick them together. But many are brought me to be doctored and mended up, and from some of them I take part of my pay in reading them—books, I mean, that I wouldn't otherwise find it easy to lay my hands upon—scarce books, you know.”
“You would like to go to Oxford, wouldn't ye, lad—and lay in a stock to last your life out?”
“You might as well think to lay victuals into you for a lifetime, grandfather! But I should like to lay in a stock of the tools to be got at Oxford! It would be grand to be able to pick the lock of any door I wanted to see the other side of.”
“I'll put you up to pick any lock you ever saw, or are likely to see,” returned Armour. “I served my time to a locksmith. We didn't hit it off always, and so hit one another—as often almost as the anvil. So when I was out of my time, and couldn't get locksmith's work except in a large forge, I knew better than take it: for I couldn't help getting into rows, and was afraid of doing somebody a mischief when my blood was up. So I started for myself as a general blacksmith-in a small way, of course. But my right hand 'ain't forgot its cunning in locks! I'll teach you to pick the cunningest lock in the world—whether made in Italy or in China.”
“The lock I was thinking of,” said Richard, “was that of the tree of knowledge.”
“I've heerd,” returned Simon, with more humour than accuracy, “as that was a raither pecooliar lock. How it was kep' red hot all the time without coal and bellows, I don't seem to see!”
“Ah!” said Richard, “you mean the flaming sword that turned every way?”