They entered a loft, open to the peak and shingles, with a window
in each end. Clocks, dials, pendulums, and tiny cog-wheels of wood
and brass were on a long bench by the street window. Thereon,
also, were a vice and tools. The room was cleanly, with a crude
homelikeness about it. Chromos and illustrated papers had been
pasted on the rough, board walls.
"On me life, it is cold," said the tinker, opening a small stove
and beginning to whittle shavings, "'Cold as a dead man's nose.'
Be seated, an' try--try to be happy."
There was an old rocker and two small chairs in the room.
"I do not feel the cold," said Trove, taking one of them.
"Belike, good youth, thou hast the rose of summer in thy cheeks,"
said the old man.
"And no need of an overcoat," the boy answered, removing the one he
wore and passing it to the tinker. "I wish you to keep it, sir."
"Wherefore, boy? 'Twould best serve me on thy back."
"Please take it," said Trove. "I cannot bear to think of you
shivering in the cold. Take it, and make me happy."
"Well, if it keep me warm, an' thee happy, it will be a wonderful
coat," said the old man, wiping his gray eyes.
Then he rose and filled the stove with wood and sat down, peering
at Trove between the upper rim of his spectacles and the feathery
arches of silvered hair upon his brows.
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