AND now it was the turn of the Blacksmith who had
made Death sit in his pear-tree until the cold wind whistled
through the ribs of man's enemy. He was a big, burly man,
with a bullet head and a great thick neck, and a voice like a
bull’s.
“Do you mind,” said he, “about how I clapped a man in
the fire and cooked him to a crisp that day that St. Peter
came travelling my way ?”

There was a little space of silence, and then the Soldier
who had cheated the Devil spoke up. “ Why yes, friend,”
sad he, “I know your story very well.”

“T am not so fortunate,” said old Bidpat. “I do not
know your story. Tell me, friend, did you really bake a
man toacrisp? And how was it then?”

“ Why,” said the Blacksmith, “I was trying to a what
a better man than I did, and where he hit the mark I
mussed it by an ell. ’Twas a pretty scrape I was in that
day.”

“ But how did tt happen ?” said Bidpat.

‘Tt happened,” said the Blacksmith, “just as it is going
‘to happen in the story I am about to tell.”

“ And what is your story about ?” said Fortunatus.

“ Tt ts,” said the Blacksmith, “ about—

264