“Teeth—good brads,”—they all gave a shriek like the whisk of the waxed threads through the leather, and sprung upon him with their awls drawn back like daggers. There was no time to lose.
“The old woman with the spindle—” said Colin.
“Don’t know her,” shrieked the cobblers.
“The old woman with the distaff,” said Colin, and they all scurried back to their seats and fell to hammering vigorously.
“She desired me,” continued Colin, “to ask the cobbler for a lump of his wax.”
Every one of them caught up his lump of wrought rosin, and held it out to Colin. He took the one offered by the nearest, and found that all their lumps were gone; after which they sat motionless and stared at him.
“But what am I to do with it?” asked Colin.
“I will walk a little way with you,” said the one nearest, “and tell you all about it. The old woman is my grandmother, and a very worthy old soul she is.”
Colin stepped out at the door of the workshop, and the cobbler followed him. Looking round, Colin saw all the stools vacant, and the place as still as an old churchyard. The cobbler, who now in his talk, gestures, and general demeanour appeared a very respectable, not to say conventional, little man, proceeded to give him all the information he required, accompanying it with the present of one of his favourite awls.
They walked a long way, till Colin was amazed to find that his strength stood out so well. But at length the cobbler said—
“I see, sir, that the sun is at hand. I must return to my vocation. When the sun is once up, you will know where you are.”