Tito darkened the doorway with a very different outline, standing in silence, since it was useless to speak until Niccolò should deign to pause and notice him. That was not until the smith had beaten the head of an axe to the due sharpness of edge and dismissed it from his anvil. But in the meantime Tito had satisfied himself by a glance round the shop that the object of which he was in search had not disappeared.
Niccolò gave an unceremonious but good-humoured nod as he turned from the anvil and rested his hammer on his hip.
“What is it, Messer Tito? Business?”
“Assuredly, Niccolò; else I should not have ventured to interrupt you when you are working out of hours, since I take that as a sign that your work is pressing.”
“I’ve been at the same work all day—making axes and spearheads. And every fool that has passed my shop has put his pumpkin-head in to say, ‘Niccolò, wilt thou not come and see the King of France and his soldiers?’ and I’ve answered, ‘No: I don’t want to see their faces—I want to see their backs.’ ”
“Are you making arms for the citizens, then, Niccolò, that they may have something better than rusty scythes and spits in case of an uproar?”
“We shall see. Arms are good, and Florence is likely to want them. The Frate tells us we shall get Pisa again, and I hold with the Frate; but I should be glad to know how the promise is to be fulfilled, if we don’t get plenty of good weapons forged? The Frate sees a long way before him; that I believe. But he doesn’t see birds caught with winking at them, as some of our people try to make out. He sees sense, and not nonsense. But you’re a bit of a Medicean, Messer Tito Melema. Ebbene! so I’ve been myself in my time, before the cask began to run sour. What’s your business?”