The Best of Lester del Rey

The Coppersmith

In the slanting rays of the morning sun, the figure trudging along the path seemed out of place so near the foothills of the Adirondacks. His scant three feet of stocky height was covered by a tattered jerkin of brown leather that fell to his knees, and above was a russet cap with turned-back brim and high, pointed crown. Below, the dusty sandals were tipped up at the toes and tied back to the ankles, and on each a little copper bell tinkled lightly as he walked.

Ellowan Coppersmith moved slowly under the weight of the bag he bore on his shoulders, combing out his beard with a stubby brown hand and humming in time with the jingling bells. It was early still and a whole day lay before him in which to work. After the long sleep, back in the hills where his people lay dormant, work would be good again.

The path came to an end where it joined a well-kept highway, and the elf eased the bag from his shoulder while he studied the signpost. There was little meaning for him in the cryptic marker that bore the cabalistic 30, but the arrow below indicated that Wells lay half a mile beyond. That must be the village he had spied from the path; a very nice little village, Ellowan judged, and not unprosperous. Work should be found in plenty there.

But first, the berries he had picked in the fields would refresh him after the long walk. His kindly brown eyes lighted with pleasure as he pulled them from his bag and sat back against the signpost. Surely even these few so late in the season were an omen of good fortune to come. The elf munched them slowly, savoring their wild sweetness gratefully.

When they were finished, he reached into his bag again and brought forth a handful of thin sticks, which he tossed on the ground and studied carefully. “Six score years in sleep,” he muttered. “Eh, well, though the runes forecast the future but poorly, they seldom lie of the past. Six score years it must be.”

He tossed the runes back into the bag and turned toward a growing noise that had been creeping up on him from behind. The source of the sound seemed to be a long, low vehicle that came sweeping up the road and flashed by him so rapidly that there was only time to catch a glimpse of the men inside.

“These men!” Ellowan picked up his bag and headed toward the village, shaking his head doubtfully. “Now they have engines inside their carriages, and strange engines at that, from the odor. Even the air of the highway must be polluted with the foul smell of machines. Next it’s flying they’ll be. Methinks ‘twere best to go through the fields to the village.”

He pulled out his clay pipe and sucked on it, but the flavor had dried out while he had lain sleeping, and the xtobacco in his pouch had molded away. Well, there’d be tobacco in the village, and coppers to buy it with. He was humming again as he neared the town and studied its group of houses, among which the people were just beginning to stir. It would be best to go from house to house rather than disturb them by crying his services from the street. With an expectant smile on his weathered old face, Ellowan rapped lightly and waited for a response.

“Whatta you want?” The woman brushed back her stringy hair with one hand while holding the door firmly with the other, and her eyes were hard as she caught sight of the elf’s bag. “We don’t want no magazines. You’re just wastin’ your time!”

From the kitchen came the nauseating odor of scorching eggs, and the door was slammed shut before Ellowan could state his wants. Eh, well, a town without a shrew was a town without a house. A bad start and a good ending, perchance. But no one answered his second knock, and he drew no further response than faces pressed to the window at the third.

A young woman came to the next door, eyeing him’ curiously, but answering his smile. “Good morning,” she said doubtfully, and the elf’s hopes rose.

“A good morning to you, mistress. And have you pots to mend, pans or odds that you wish repaired?” It was good to speak the words again. “I’m a wonderful tinker, none better, mistress. Like new they’ll be, and the better for the knack that I have and that which I bring in my bag.”

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t anything; I’ve just been married a few weeks.” She smiled again, hesitantly. “If you’re hungry, though… well, we don’t usually feed men who come to the door, but I guess it’d be all right this time.”

“No, mistress, but thank’ee. It’s only honest labor I want.” Ellowan heaved the bag up again and moved down the steps. The girl turned to go in, glancing back at him with a feeling of guilt that there was no work for the strange little fellow. On impulse, she called after him.

“Wait!” At her cry, he faced her again. “I just thought; Mother might have something for you. She lives down the street—the fifth house on the right. Her name’s Mrs. Franklin.”

Ellowan’s face creased in a twinkling smile. “My thanks again, mistress, and good fortune attend you.”

Eh, so, his luck had changed again. Once his skill was known, there’d be no lack of work for him. “A few coppers here and a farthing there, from many a kettle to mend; with solder and flux and skill to combine, there’s many a copper to spend.”

He was still humming as he rounded the house and found Mrs. Franklin hanging out dish towels on the back porch to dry. She was a somewhat stout woman, with the expression of fatigue that grows habitual in some cases, but her smile was as kindly as her daughter’s when she spied the elf.

“Are you the little man my daughter said mended things?” she asked. “Susan phoned me that you’d be here—she took quite a fancy to you. Well, come up here on the porch and I’ll bring out what I want fixed. I hope your rates aren’t too high?”

“It’s very reasonable you’ll find them, mistress.” He sank down on a three-legged stool he pulled from his bag and brought out a little table, while she went inside for the articles that needed repairs. There were knick-knacks, a skillet, various pans, a copper wash boiler, and odds and ends of all sorts; enough to keep him busy till midday.

She set them down beside him. “Well, that’s the lot of them. I’ve been meaning to throw most of them away, since nobody around here can fix them, but it seems a shame to see things wasted for some little hole. You just call me when you’re through.”

Ellowan nodded briskly and dug down into his seemingly bottomless bag. Out came his wonderful fluxes that could clean the thickest tarnish away in a twinkling, the polish that even the hardest grease and oldest soot couldn’t defy, the bars of solder that became one with the metal, so that the sharpest eye would fail to note the difference; and out came the clever little tools that worked and smoothed the repair into unity with the original. Last of all, he drew forth a tiny anvil and a little charcoal brazier whose coals began to burn as he set it down. There was no fan or bellows, yet the coals in the center glowed fiercely at white heat.

The little elf reached out for the copper boiler, so badly dented that the seam had sprung open all the way down. A few light taps on his anvil straightened it back into smoothness. He spread on his polish, blew on it vigorously, and watched the dirt and dullness disappear, then applied his flux, and drew some of the solder onto it with a hot iron, chuckling as the seams became waterproof again. Surely now, even the long sleep had cost him none of his skill. As he laid it down, there was no sign to show that the boiler had not come freshly from some shop, or new out of the maker’s hands.

The skillet was bright and shiny, except for a brown circle on the bottom, and gleamed with a silvery luster. Some magic craftsman must have made it, the elf thought, and it should receive special pains to make sure that the spell holding it so bright was/not broken. He rubbed a few drops of polish over it carefully, inspected the loose handle, and applied his purple flux, swabbing off the small excess. Tenderly he ran the hot iron over the solder and began working the metal against the handle.

But something was very wrong. Instead of drawing firmly to the skillet, the solder ran down the side in little drops. Such as remained was loose and refused to stick. With a puzzled frown, Ellowan smelled his materials and tried again; there was nothing wrong with the solder or flux, but they still refused to work. He muttered softly and reached out for a pan with a phi hole in it

Mrs. Franklin found him sitting there later, his tools neatly before him, the pots and pans stacked at his side, and the brazier glowing brightly. “All finished?” she asked cheerfully. “I brought you some coffee and a cinnamon bun I just baked; I thought you might like them.” She set them down before the elf and glanced at the pile of utensils again. Only the boiler was fixed. “What—” she began sharply, but softened her question somewhat as she saw the bewildered frustration on bis face. “I thought you said you could fix them?”

Ellowan nodded glumly. “That I did, mistress, and that I tried to do. But my solder and flux refused all but the honest copper, yonder, and there’s never a thing I can make of them. Either these must be wondrous metals indeed, or my art has been bewitched.”

“There’s nothing very wonderful about aluminum and enamelware—nor stainless, steel, either, except the prices they charge.” She picked up the wash boiler and inspected his work. “Well, you did do this nicely, and you’re not the only one who can’t solder aluminum, I guess, so cheer up. And eat your roll before it’s cold!”

“Thank’ee, mistress.” The savory aroma of the bun had been tantalizing his stomach, but he had been waiting to make certain that he was welcome to it. “It’s sorry I am to have troubled you, but it’s a long time ago that I tinkered for my living, and this is new to me.”

Mrs. Franklin nodded sympathetically; the poor little man must have been living with a son, or maybe working in a side show—he was short enough, and his costume was certainly theatrical. Well, hard times were hard times. “You didn’t trouble me much, I guess. Besides, I needed the boiler tomorrow for wash day, so that’s a big help, anyway. What do I owe you for it?”

“Tu’pence ha’penny,” Ellowan said, taking out for the bun. Her look was uncertain, and he changed it quickly. “Five pence American, that is, mistress.”

“Five cents! But it’s worth ten times that!”

“It’s but an honest price for the labor, mistress.” Ellowan was putting the tools and materials back in his bag. “That’s all I can take for the small bit I could do.”

“Well—” She shrugged. “All right, if that’s all you’ll take, here it is.” The coin she handed him seemed strange, but that was to be expected. He pocketed it with a quick smile and another “thank’ee,” and went in search of a store he had noticed before.

The shop was confusing in the wide variety of articles it carried, but Ellowan spied tobacco and cigars on display and walked in. Now that he had eaten the bun, the tobacco was a more pressing need than food.

“Two pennies of tobacco, if it please you,” he told the clerk, holding out the little leather pouch he carried.

“You crazy?” The clerk was a boy, much more interested in his oiled hair than in the customers who might come in. “Cheapest thing I can give you is Duke’s Mixture, and it’ll cost you five cents, cash.”

Regretfully Ellowan watched the nickel vanish over the counter; tobacco was indeed a luxury at the price. He picked up the small cloth bag, and the pasteboard folder the boy thrust at him. “What might this be?” he asked, holding up the folder.

“Matches.” The boy grinned in fine superiority.

“Where you been all your life? Okay, you do this… see? Course, if you don’t want ‘em—”

“Thank’ee.” The elf pocketed the book of matches quickly and hurried toward the street, vastly pleased with his purchase. Such a great marvel as the matches alone surely was worth the price. He filled his clay pipe and struck one of them curiously, chuckling in delight as it flamed up. When he dropped the flame regretfully,-he noticed that the tobacco, too, was imbued with magic, else surely it could never have been cured to such a mild and satisfying flavor. It scarcely bit his tongue.

But there was no time to be loitering around admiring his new treasures. Without work there could be no food, and supper was still to be taken care of. Those aluminum and enamelware pans were still in his mind, reminding him that coppers might be hard to get. But then, Mrs. Franklin had mentioned stainless steel, and only a mighty wizard could prevent iron from rusting; perhaps her husband was a worker in enchantments, and the rest of the village might be served in honest copper and hammered pewter. He shook his shoulders in forced optimism and marched down the street toward the other houses, noting the prices marked in a store window as he passed. Eh, the woman was right; he’d have to charge more for his services to eat at those rates.

The road was filled with the strange carriages driven by engines, and Ellowan stayed cautiously off the paving. But the stench from their exhausts and the dust they stirred up were still thick in his nostrils. The elf switched the bag from his left shoulder to his right and plodded on grimly, but there was no longer a tune on his lips, and the little bells refused to tinkle as he walked.

The sun had set, and it was already growing darker, bringing the long slow day to a close. His last call would be at the house ahead, already showing lights burning, and it was still some distance off. Ellowan pulled his belt tighter and marched toward it, muttering in slow time to his steps.

“Al-u-mi-num and en-am-el-ware and stainless STEEL!” A row of green pans, red pots and ivory bowls ran before his eyes, and everywhere there was a glint of silvery skillets and dull white kettles. Even the handles used were no longer honest wood, but smelled faintly resinous.

Not one proper kettle in the whole village had he found. The housewives came out and looked at him, answered his smile, and brought forth their work for him in an oddly hesitant manner, as if they were unused to giving out such jobs at the door. It spoke more of pity than of any desire to have their wares mended.

“No, mistress, only copper. These new metals refuse my solder, and them I cannot mend.” Over and again he’d repeated the words until they were as wooden as his knocks had grown; and always, there was no copper. It was almost a kindness when they refused to answer his knock.

He had been glad to quit the village and turn out on the road to the country, even though the houses were farther apart. Surely among the farming people, the older methods would still be in use. But the results were no different. They greeted him kindly and brought out their wares to him with less hesitancy than in the village—but the utensils were enamelware and aluminum and stainless steel!

Ellowan groped for his pipe and sank down on the ground to rest, noting that eight miles still lay between him and Northville. He measured out the tobacco carefully, and hesitated before using one of the new matches. Then, as he lit it, he watched the flame dully and tossed it listlessly aside. Even the tobacco tasted flat now, and the emptiness of his stomach refused to be fooled by the smoke, though it helped to take his mind away from his troubles. Eh, well, there was always that one last house to be seen, where fortune might smile on him long enough to furnish a supper. He shouldered the bag with a grunt and moved on.

A large German shepherd came bounding out at the elf as he turned in the gate to the farmhouse. The dog’s bark was gruff and threatening, but Ellowan clucked softly and the animal quieted, walking beside him toward the house, its tail wagging slowly. The farmer watched the performance and grinned.

“Prinz seems to like you,” he called out. “Tain’t everyone he takes to like that. What can I do for you, lad?” Then, as Ellowan drew nearer, he looked more sharply. “Sorry—my mistake. For a minute there, I thought you was a boy.”

“I’m a tinker, sir. A coppersmith, that is.” The elf stroked the dog’s head and looked up at the farmer wistfully. “Have you copper pots or pans, or odds of any kind, to be mended? I do very good work on copper, sir, and I’ll be glad to work for only my supper.”

The farmer opened the door and motioned him in. “Come on inside, and we’ll see. I don’t reckon we have, but the wife knows better.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Louisa, where are you? In the kitchen?”

“In here, Henry.” The voice came from the kitchen, and Ellowan followed the man back, the dog nuzzling his hand companionably. The woman was washing the last few dishes and putting the supper away as they entered, and the sight of food awoke the hunger that the elf had temporarily suppressed.

“This fellow says he’s good at fixin’ copper dishes, Louisa,” Henry told his wife. “You got anything like that for him?” He bent over her ear and spoke in an undertone, but Ellowan caught the words. “If you got anything copper, he looks like he needs it, Lou. Nice little midget, seems to be, and Prinz took quite a shine to him.”

Louisa shook her head slowly. “I had a couple of old copper kettles, only I threw them away when we got the aluminum cooking set. But if you’re hungry, there’s plenty of food still left. Won’t you sit down while I fix it for you?”

Ellowan looked eagerly at the remains of the supper, and his mouth watered hotly, but he managed a smile, and his voice was determined. “Thank’ee kindly, mistress, but I can’t. It’s one of the rules I must live by not to beg or take what I cannot earn. But I’ll be thanking you both for the thought, and wishing you a very good night.”

They followed him to the door, and the dog trotted behind him until its master’s whistle called it back. Then the elf was alone on the road again, hunting a place to sleep. There was a haystack back off the road that would make a good bed, and he headed for that. Well, hay was hardly nourishing, but chewing on it was better than nothing: Ellowan was up with the sun again, brushing the dirt off his jerkin. As an experiment, he shook the runes out on the ground and studied them for a few minutes. “Eh, well,” he muttered, tossing them back in the bag, “they speak well, but it’s little faith I’d have in them for what is to come. It’s too easy to shake them the way I’d want them to be. But perchance there’ll be a berry or so in the woods yonder.”

There were no berries, and the acorns were still green. Ellowan struck the highway again, drawing faint pleasure from the fact that few cars were on the road at that hour. He wondered again why their fumes, though unpleasant, bothered him as little as they did. His brothers, up in the grotto hidden in the Adirondacks, found even the smoke from the factories a deadening poison.

The smell of a good wood fire, or the fumes from alcohol in the glass-blower’s lamp were pleasant to them. But with the coming of coal, a slow lethargy had crept over them, driving them back one by one into the hills to sleep. It had been bad enough when coal was burned in the hearths, but that Scotchman, Watts, had found that power could be drawn from steam, and the factories began spewing forth the murky fumes of acrid coal smoke. And the Little Folk had fled hopelessly from the poison, until Ellowan Coppersmith alone was left. In time, even he had joined his brothers up in the hills.

Now he had awakened again, without rhyme or reason, when the stench of the liquid called gasoline was added to that of coal. All along the highway were pumps that supplied it to the endless cars, and the taint of it in the air was omnipresent.

“Eh, well,” he thought. “My brothers were ever filled with foolish pranks instead of honest work, while I found my pleasure in labor. Methinks the pranks weakened them against the poison, and the work gives strength; it was only after I hexed the factory owner that the sleep crept into my head, and six score years must surely pay the price of one such trick. Yet, when I first awakened, it’s thinking I was that there was some good purpose that drew, me forth.”

The sight of an orchard near the road caught his attention, and the elf searched carefully along the strip of grass outside the fence in the hope that an apple might have been blown outside. But only inside was there fruit, and to cross the fence would be stealing. He left the orchard reluctantly and started to turn in at the road leading to the farmhouse. Then he paused.

After all, the farms were equipped exactly as the city now, and such faint luck as he’d had yesterday had been in the village. There was little sense in wasting his effort among the scattered houses of the country, in the unlikely chance that he might find copper. In the city, at least, there was little time wasted, and it was only by covering as many places as he could that he might hope to find work. Ellowan shrugged, and turned back on the highway; he’d save his time and energy until he reached Northville.

It was nearly an hour later when he came on the boy, sitting beside the road and fussing over some machine. Ellowan stopped as he saw the scattered parts and the worried frown on the lad’s face. Little troubles seemed great to twelve-year-olds.

“Eh, now, lad,” he asked, “is it trouble you’ve having there? And what might be that contrivance of bars and wheels?”

“It’s a bicycle; ever’body knows that.” From the sound of the boy’s voice, tragedy had reared a large and ugly head. “And I’ve only had it since last Christmas. Now it’s broke and I can’t fix it.”

He held up a piece that had come from the hub of the rear wheel. “See? That’s the part that swells up when I brake it. It’s all broken, and a new coaster brake costs five dollars.”

Ellowan took the pieces and smelled them; his eyes had not been deceived. It was brass. “So?” he asked. “Now that’s a shame, indeed. And a very pretty machine it was. But perchance I can fix it.”

The boy looked up hopefully as he watched the elf draw out the brazier and tools. Then his face fell. “Naw, mister. I ain’t got the money. All I got’s a quarter, and I can’t get it, ‘cause it’s in my bank, and mom won’t let me open it.”

The elf’s reviving hopes of breakfast faded away, but he smiled casually. “Eh, so? Well, lad, there are other things than money. Let’s see what we’ll be making of this.”

His eyes picked out the relation of the various parts, and his admiration for the creator of the machine rose. That hub was meant to drive the machine, to roll free, or to brake as the user desired. The broken piece was a split cylinder of brass that was arranged to expand against the inside of the hub when braking. How it could have been damaged was a mystery, but the ability of boys to destroy was no novelty to Ellowan.

Under his hands, the rough edges were smoothed down in a twinkling, and he ran his strongest solder into the break, filling and drawing it together, then scraping and abrading the metal smooth again. The boy’s eyes widened.

“Say, mister, you’re good! Them fellers in the city can’t do it like that, and they’ve got all kinds of tools, too.” He took the repaired piece and began threading the parts back on the spindle. “Gosh, you’re little. D’you come out of a circus?”

Ellowan shook his head, smiling faintly. The questions of children had always been candid, and honest replies could be given them. “That I did not, lad, and I’m not a midget, if that’s what you’d be thinking. Now didn’t your grandmother tell you the old tales of the elves?”

“An elf!” The boy stopped twisting the nuts back on. “Go on! There ain’t such things—I don’t guess.” His voice grew doubtful, though, as he studied the little brown figure. “Say, you do look like the pi’tures I seen, at that, and it sure looked like magic the way you fixed my brake. Can you really do magic?”

“It’s never much use I had for magic, lad. I had no time for learning it, when business was better. The h6n-est tricks of my trade were enough for me, with a certain skill that was ever mine. And I wouldn’t be mentioning this to your parents, if I were you.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t; they’d say I was nuts.” The boy climbed on the saddle, and tested the brake with obvious satisfaction. “You goin’ to town? Hop on and put your bag in the basket here. I’m goin’ down within a mile of there—if you can ride on the rack.”

“It would be a heavy load for you, lad, I’m thinking.” Ellowan was none too sure of the security of such a vehicle, but the ride would be most welcome.

“Naw. Hop on. I’ve carried my brother, and he’s heavier’n you. Anyway, that’s a Mussimer two-speed brake. Dad got it special for Christmas.” He reached over for Ellowan’s bag, and was surprised by its lightness. Those who help an elf usually found things easier than they expected. “Anyway, I owe you sumpin’ for fixin’it.”

Ellowan climbed on the luggage rack at the rear and clutched the boy tightly at first. The rack was hard, but the paving smoothed out the ride, and it was far easier than walking. He relaxed and watched the road go by in a quarter of the time he could have traveled it on foot. If fortune smiled on him, breakfast might be earned sooner than he had hoped.

“Well, here’s where I stop,” the boy finally told him. “The town’s down there about a mile. Thanks for fixin’ my bike.”

Ellowan dismounted cautiously, and lifted out his bag. “Thank’ee for helping me so far, lad. And I’m thinking the brake will be giving you little trouble hereafter.” He watched the boy ride off on a side road, and started toward the town, the serious business of breakfast uppermost in his minds

Breakfast was still in his mind when midday had passed, but there was no sign that it was nearer his stomach. He came out of an alley and stopped for a few draws on his pipe and a chance to rest his shoulders. He’d have to stop smoking soon; on an empty stomach, too much tobacco is nauseating. Over the smell of the smoke, another odor struck Ms nose, and he turned around slowly.

It was the clean odor of hot metal in a charcoal fire, and came from a sprawling old building a few yards away. The sign above was faded, but he made out the words: michael donahue—horseshoeing and auto repairs. The sight of a blacksmith shop aroused memories of pleasanter days, and Ellowan drew nearer.

The man inside was in his fifties, but his body spoke of strength and clean living, and the face under the mop of red hair was open and friendly. At the moment, he was sitting on a stool, finishing a sandwich. The odor of the food reached out and stirred the elf’s stomach again, and he scuffed his sandals against the ground uneasily. The man looked up.

“Saints presarve us!” Donahue’s generous mouth opened to its widest. “Sure, and it’s one o’ the Little Folk, the loike as my feyther tolt me. Now fwhat—Och,now, but it’s hungry ye’d be from the look that ye have, and me eatin’ before ye! Here now, me hearty, it’s yer-self as shud have this bread.”

“Thank’ee.” Ellowan shook his head with an effort, but it came harder this tune. “I’m an honest worker, sir, and it’s one of the rules that I can’t be taking what I cannot earn. But there’s never a piece of copper to be found in all the city for me to mend.” He laid his hands on a blackened bench to ease the ache in his legs.

“Now that’s a shame.” The brogue dropped from Donahue’s speech, now that the surprise of seeing the elf was leaving him. “It’s a good worker you are, too, if what my father told me was true. He came over from the old country when I was a bit of a baby, and his

father told him before that. Wonderful workers, he said you were.”

“I am that.” It was a simple statement as Ellowan made it; boasting requires a certain energy, even had he felt like it. “Anything of brass or copper I can fix, and it’ll be like new when I finish.”

“Can you that?” Donahue looked at him with interest. “Eh, maybe you can. I’ve a notion to try you out. You wait here.” He disappeared through the door that divided his smithy from the auto servicing department and came back with a large piece of blackened metal hi his hand. The elf smelled it questioningly and found it was brass.

Donahue tapped it lightly. “That’s a radiator, m’boy. Water runs through these tubes here and these little fins cool it off. Old Pete Yaegger brought it in and wanted it fixed, but it’s too far ruined for my hands. And he can’t afford a new one. You fix that now, and I’ll be giving you a nice bit of money for the work.”

“Fix it I can.” Ellowan’s hands were trembling as he inspected the corroded metal core, and began drawing out his tools. “I’ll be finished within the hour.”

Donahue looked doubtfully at the elf, but nodded slowly. “Now maybe you will. But first, you’ll eat, and we’ll not be arguing about that. A hungry man never did good work, and I’m of the opinion the same applies to yourself. There’s still a sandwich and a bit of pie left, if you don’t mind washing it down with water.”

The elf needed no water to wash down the food. When Donahue looked at him next, the crumbs had been licked from the paper, and Ellowan’s deft hands were working his clever little tools through the fins of the radiator, and his face was crinkling up into its usual merry smile. The metal seemed to run and flow through his hands with a will of its own, and he was whistling lightly as he worked.

Ellowan waited intently as Donahue inspected the finished work. Where the blackened metal had been bent and twisted, and filled with holes, it was now shining and new. The smith could find no sign to indicate

that it was not all one single piece, now, for the seams were joined invisibly.

“Now that’s craftsmanship,” Donahue admitted. “I’m thinking we’ll do a deal of business from now on, the two of us, and there’s money in it, too. Ellowan, m’boy, with work like that we can buy up old radiators, remake them, and at a nice little profit for ourselves we can sell them again. You’ll be searching no further for labor.”

The elf’s eyes twinkled at the prospect of long lines of radiators needing to be fixed, and a steady supply of work without the need of searching for it. For the first tune, he realized that industrialization might have its advantages for the worker.

Donahue dug into a box and came out with a little metal figure of a greyhound, molded on a threaded cap. “Now, while I get something else for you, you might be fixing this,” he said. ” Tis a godsend that you’ve come to me…. Eh, now that I think of it, what brings you here, when I thought it’d be in the old country you worked?”

“That was my home,” the elf agreed, twisting the radiator cap in his hands and straightening out the broken threads. “But the people became too poor hi the country, and the cities were filled with coal smoke. And then there was word of a new land across the sea, so we left, such of us as remained, and it was here we stayed until the smoke came again, and sent us sleeping into the hills. Eh, it’s glad I am now to be awake again.”

Donahue nodded. “And it’s not sorry I am. I’m a good blacksmith, but there’s never enough of that for a man to live now, and mostly I work on the autos. And there, m’boy, you’ll be a wonderful help to be sure. The parts I like least are the ignition system and generator, and there’s copper in them where your skill will be greater than mine. And the radiators, of course.”

Ellowan’s hands fumbled on the metal, and he set it down suddenly. “Those radiators, now—they come from a car?”

“That they do.” Donahue’s back was turned as he drew a horseshoe out of the forge and began hammering it on the anvil. He could not see the twinkle fade from

the elf’s eyes and the slowness with which the small fingers picked up the radiator cap.

Ellowan was thinking of his people, asleep in the hills, doomed to lie there until the air should be cleared of the poisonous fumes. And here he was, working on parts of the machines that helped to make those fumes. Yet, since there was little enough else to do, he had no choice but to keep on; cars or no cars, food was still the . prime necessity.

Donahue bent the end of a shoe over to a calk and hammered it into shape, even with the other one. “You’ll be wanting a place to sleep?” he asked casually. “Well, now, I’ve a room at the house that used to be my boy’s, and it’ll just suit you. The boy’s at college and won’t be needing it.”

“Thank’ee kindly.” Ellowan finished the cap and put it aside distastefully.

“The boy’ll be a great engineer some day,” the smith went on with a glow of pride. “And not have to follow his father in the trade. And it’s a good thing, I’m thinking. Because some day, when they’ve used up all their coal and oil, there’ll be no money in the business at all, even with the help of these newfangled things. My father was a smith, and I’m by way of being smith and mechanic—but not the boy.”

“They’ll use up all the coal and oil—entirely?”

“They will that, now. Nobody knows when, but the day’s acoming. And then they’ll be using electricity or maybe alcohol for fuel. It’s a changing world, lad, and we old ones can’t change to keep with it.”

Ellowan picked up the radiator cap and polished it again. Eh, so. One day they’d use up all the sources of evil, and the air would be pure again. The more cars that ran, the sooner that day would come, and the more he repaired, the more would run.

“Eh, now,” he said gayly. “I’ll be glad for more of those radiators to mend. But until then, perchance I could work a bit of yonder scrap brass into more such ornaments as this one.”

Somehow, he was sure, when his people came forth again, there’d be work for all.