It was now past the middle of March. A copious rain was succeeded by a sharp frost, making excellent going on the river, and Richardson resolved to improve it; the only drawback being that the river was one glare of ice, and his oxen had lost many of their shoes. He had saved part of the shoes, borrowed some more of John Bradford, and could have put them on himself, as Moody Matthews had a shoeing-hammer, but there were no nails in the neighborhood.
Richardson, however, knew that by taking time and by careful driving, he could get the cattle to the village, and determined to carry the shoes with him, and hire Drew to sharpen and nail them on. He put on the sled half a cord of hemlock bark, his own grist, the butter, cloth, and yarn, together with some corn and grain for his neighbors.
About eight o'clock in the evening his wife went to bed; but William made up a warm fire in the stone fireplace, fed the cattle, and lay down before it. At twelve o'clock he went out, fed the cattle again, and called his wife, who got his breakfast, and he set out. He carried in a basket doughnuts, baked beans, cold boiled pork, Indian bread, and butter, and a jug of coffee, also hay for the oxen. His plan was to stop for the night at Hanson's, who put up teams, paying fifty cents a night for barn-room for the cattle and a bed for himself, Hanson's wife warming his beans, and making tea or coffee for him, as the coffee he carried was to drink on the road. This expense was paid by the neighbors whose errands he did.
At his arrival, he found John Drew, who before had always received him very cordially, in a most surly humor. He was making axes. Tom Breslaw, an apprentice, nearly out of his time, was striking, and blowing the bellows. Barely nodding, in response to the greeting of Richardson, he took an axe, into which he had stuck the steel, from the fire, flung it savagely on the anvil, crying to Tom, "Strike!" and after the heat put it in the fire again, taking not the least notice of Richardson, but giving all his attention to his iron. Finding he was not noticed, and at a loss to know what this strange conduct of the smith meant, he at length said, "Mr. Drew, can you put a few shoes on my oxen?"
"No, I can't. I've got this axe and another one to make for a man that's waitin' for 'em."
"Perhaps you could do it in the morning. I shall be obliged to stay all night to get my grist ground. It would be a great accommodation to me if you could. I had hard work to get the cattle here, and if I am obliged to drive them home as they are, I shall lame them."
"Can't do it, I tell you, and that's the long and short of it."
"Perhaps you could make some nails, lend me a shoeing-hammer, and I would try and nail them on myself. If you don't, I am sure I don't know what I shall do. I had hard work to get the cattle here with no load of any amount. I must haul more back, and I don't know how I can get home."
"And I don't care how you get home, Bill Richardson; nor whether you get home at all. Here I've slaved myself for years, going up to your place through the woods on snow-shoes once or twice every winter, and hauling my tools and shoes on a hand-sled, leaving work here in the shop just to accommodate you folks up there, and took my pay in white beans and all sorts of trash, when I left cash jobs at home and lost 'em; and here you come smelling round, and palavering, as though butter wouldn't melt in your mouth; watch and sneak round, and steal the trade, and then go back, cut off my custom, and take the bread right out of my mouth. Now I've got you where the hair is short. You may shoe your own cattle, you're such a great smith. I won't make you a shoe, nail, lend you a tool, or obleege you in any way, name, or natur'. Strike, Tom Breslaw—what are you gaping at?"
Waiting patiently till the din of blows had subsided, and the iron was returned to the fire, Richardson replied,—
"As for stealing your trade, Mr. Drew, and coming here for the purpose, it is certainly a mistake of yours. I never thought of trying to work a piece of iron till the last time I was here, when the thought came into my mind. You surely can't think it strange, when you know what great labor and expense it is for myself and neighbors to come here, that we should try to do somewhat for ourselves. You would do the same were you in our place. If you complain so bitterly of coming to our place twice a year, what do you think it must be for us to come to you all the time? You must remember, also, that at those times you charged a corresponding price, that was cheerfully paid. I can't well see how you could lose any work by going, as there is no other smith anywhere round, and you must have found the work waiting when you came back. I have never been reputed a thief among my neighbors, or made a practice of stealing. I did wish to obtain some information of you, before I went home, about working and tempering steel, but expected to pay for it. As for taking bread out of your mouth, you have all the work you can do right here, without doing a stroke of work for us."
"Well, all the knowledge you'll worm out of me you may put in your eye, for you won't get any."
"I don't expect, or even desire to, after what has passed between us; but, as I have given you full opportunity to free your mind, and express your opinion of me, any more talk of that kind before my face or behind my back will be at your own risk. I suppose you understand me."
Drew hung his head, and made no reply; for, though a patient and good-natured man, William Richardson was by no means a safe person to provoke.
It was now the dinner hour, and as Richardson left the shop he was followed by Breslaw, who said,—
"Mr. Richardson, where are you going?"
"First, Tom, to your father's, with this bark. He is tanning a couple of hides for me, and told me he would take part of his pay in bark. I was going to buy some iron and steel at the store; but I shall have to give that up; for, as Drew won't shoe my cattle, I shan't be able to haul one pound more than my grist."
"He's a mean wretch, and I don't see how you kept your hands off him. But he's been drinking; that's part of it. Give me your shoes. I'll run into Aunt Sarah's, and get my dinner; it won't take me so long as to go home; and before Drew gets back I'll fit the shoes and make the nails, and this evening we will put them on. Most of the shoes have been on the cattle before. I'll fit the others by them, and if there's any of them too far gone to sharpen, I'll make new ones."
"But where will you get iron? Shan't I run to the store and get some?"
"I keep a little of my own, and do small jobs out of shop time. Any little scraps will do for that."
Richardson hauled his bark to the tan-yard, and Breslaw's father invited him to stop to dinner. As he was passing Drew's shop on his return, Tom came out.
"I've made the shoes and nails, Mr. Richardson; and I'll tell you what I've been thinking of. I suppose money is none too plenty with you."
"You may well say that, Tom; for I'm paying for my land, and every cent counts."
"Well, now, you can, while you are waiting for your grist, go round the village, and pick up old iron, and perhaps some steel, that won't cost you one quarter what it would to buy new at the store, and be just as good, and better, for your use, as it will be smaller, and save hammering. Only look out that it is not too rusty. Perhaps you remember Bosworth, the stone-mason."
"Very well. He made the stones in the grist-mill, and built the piers of the great bridge."
"He died this last winter, and his widow has his drills and other tools, and wants to sell 'em. The drills are all steel, and the best of steel, too; and I've no doubt you could buy 'em for half what the same amount of steel would cost you at the store, and perhaps for even less."
In accordance with this advice, Richardson went to the place, and bought four hand-drills, a foot or more in length, used for splitting stone, and two dozen steel wedges. The latter, he thought, would, at some future time, serve to make toe-calks for horse-shoes. The purchase that delighted him most of all, however, was a churn-drill. This was four feet in length; but only four inches of each end was steel, being much worn, the remainder iron, shaped like the stalk of a seed onion, with a bulb of iron in the middle, three inches in diameter. He also bought a light stone-hammer. This was likewise a great acquisition, as it would serve the purpose of a sledge. Clem could now strike with it for a short time, and would, in a few months, be able to handle it easily; for he was large of his age, and muscular. He could likewise get one of his neighbors to strike, upon an emergency. Pursuing his search, he found several old axes, beetle-rings, three mill-files, the handle of a kitchen shovel, one leg of a pair of kitchen tongs, and an old crane (the latter was a large piece of iron), and some old ox-shoes. At the mill he obtained some of the mill-stone picks that had become too short for use.
Just as he had finished his supper that night, Tom made his appearance at Hanson's with the shoes, nails, and his tools. A rope was procured, and the oxen were cast on the barn floor. Richardson held a candle, stuck into a potato, while Hanson assisted Tom. The latter put on the new shoes, clinched up all the old ones that were loose, and, with a smith's large file, sharpened the dull calks.
He not only refused to take any pay for his work, avowing that Jack Drew was hog enough for one small place, but, sitting down before the fire with Richardson, gave him a great deal of valuable information respecting working iron.
In the morning Richardson rose early, and prepared to start. After paying his expenses at Hanson's, he was able to buy considerable iron at the store, and still had a little money left. The wind was north-west, a bright sun, the ice smooth and hard, and the cattle, sharpshod, were able to travel. Thoroughly rested, and eager to get home, they seemed to regard the load no more than though it had been feathers. Snorting with eagerness, proud of their new shoes, and perhaps elated with the idea of having been to the village, they could at first scarcely be kept from breaking into a run.
Was not Will Richardson a happy man that bright, sunny morning! The keen air braced his limbs, and his heart throbbed with joy. Things had turned out so much better than he anticipated. He feasted his eyes upon the iron and steel—the great bar, the nail rods—he had bought at the store, or rather the thin bar he had purchased to be split into nail rods; for at that day iron did not come from the forges in shapes to suit the smiths, but in large bars, and there was a vast deal of work to be done with the sledge and hammer.
Never did a boy gloat over a ripe plum as did Will Richardson over the great bunch of iron in the middle of that churn-drill. He couldn't keep his eyes off of it, and had already decided in his own mind what use he would make of it.
Thanks to the noble spirit of Tom Breslaw, the cattle travelled so fast that he arrived home long before his wife expected him. The children had come half starved—as children always do in the country—from school, and were screaming, "Do, mother, give me something to eat."
"I'll give you a luncheon, because you'll want to eat with your father when he comes, and you'll want to tie up the cattle, and get the night's wood in, and a turn of water, so you can have time to see him."
This being assented to by Young America, the mother, taking half of a loaf of rye-and-Indian bread, began to spread butter on the loaf, and then cut off and distribute huge slices to the hungry expectants. She had cut off the last slice when the sound of Richardson's voice, shouting to the oxen, came through the half-open door.
"Father—father's come!" screamed the children; and, followed by their mother, they ran to the river. Down the slope they rushed, pell-mell, and, just as the cattle put their fore feet on the edge of the bank, and taking advantage of a momentary pause occasioned by the steepness of the grade, piled on to the sled, the two girls holding on to their father's legs, who, standing on the hinder end of the sled, and holding by one hand to a stake, with the other waved his hat to his wife, shouting, "O, Sue, the best of luck! 'Lashings' of iron and steel; and I've brought back the fulled cloth, and the stuff for your and the children's clothes, and money—only think of it, wife, brought money home with me! You can have your tongs, and your andirons, and I can have all the tools I want? and won't we go ahead?"
His wife was too full to speak; but happiness beamed from every feature, as standing half-leg deep in the snow, she drank in the words of her husband, who, taking her in his arms, seated her upon a bag of meal, and, while the cattle went on, narrated the incidents of his journey, the surliness of Drew, and how nobly it was offset by the generous conduct of Breslaw.
"Ain't it glorious, wife? I tell you what it is, Sue, it's better to be born lucky than rich."
To which we might add, that it is better to be born with brains and energy than rich; for the riches may be lost; but the former are an enduring possession, and when under the control of virtuous principles, a source of unfailing happiness and self-respect.
William Richardson was by no means a talkative man. On the contrary he was by nature reserved and thoughtful. But now his tongue ran like a mill-clapper, and ceased not till the cattle stopped of their own accord before the door.
In the meanwhile his wife remained, listening to the excited narration of her husband, in a sort of silent rapture; but when, after the oxen stopped, he began to show her the iron, and expatiate, saying, "Only see this churn-drill, wife; both ends steel; and what a great bunch of iron in the middle—Swedish iron, too; and three picks, and drills, and wedges—all steel; and that crane—see what a great junk of iron that is!—didn't cost me much of anything, either; and that big bar, to make axes; and the thin iron for horse and ox shoes, and nail-rods;"—I say, as he thus ran on, showing and explaining the value of one piece of iron after another, tears of joy ran down the cheeks of the faithful wife, and after that she found her tongue.
Now you needn't laugh, boys, and say, "What a fuss over a little old iron!" It was worth a great deal more to that family than though it had been so much gold; and you needn't say, "O, what a whopper!" Just see if it don't come out so before we have done with the Richardsons. That amount of gold might, and probably would, have ruined them; but on every grain of that rusty metal were written encouragement, inspiration, opportunity; and God Almighty had given to William Richardson the ability to read for himself and his neighbors what was written on those iron leaves.
"Father," cried Clem, seizing the stone-hammer, "what is this awful great hammer for?"
"For you, my son, to help me draw these great bars of iron with—at any rate, by and by, if you can't handle it now."
"I can swing it now, father, just like anything. See here"—swinging it over his head, and bringing it down with considerable force on the iron.
Perhaps our readers would like to know what were the first words Susan Richardson uttered after she found her tongue.
"The first thing I'll do, when I get up to-morrow morning, shall be to spin some linen yarn as fine as I can spin it, scour and bleach it the best I know how, weave it, and if I don't make Tom Breslaw as handsome a pair of linen shirts as any man in this state ever had to his back, it will be because I can't."
The children all had to take a turn at the stone-hammer. Rob could strike with it, but could not swing it over his head; besides being younger, he was much less muscular than Clem, who was very large of his age. Sue could lift it to the height of her shoulders, Sally but a few inches. They now began to carry the iron to the shop. Clem and Rob took each an end of the churn-drill, but the girls insisted on taking hold in the middle, and entirely monopolized the conveyance of the drills, wedges, and smaller things, notwithstanding the boys told them they should think it would look a great deal better for them to go into the house and help their mother get supper. All the satisfaction they got was, "It's nothing to you; mam said we might."
The first work William Richardson did in the shop was with the remnants of the kitchen shovel and tongs he had bought to repair his wife's tongs, and cutting a piece off the old crane, he repaired the andirons.
Sitting on the anvil, he now looked over the iron and steel spread in imposing array by the children over the shop, as a militia captain makes his company take open order on muster-day for the sake of show, reflecting in what way he should make the most of his treasures, when Clem, who had been examining the drills with great interest, striking one upon the other, and listening to the clear, sharp ring thus produced, so different from the dull sound emitted by the iron, said,—
"Father, what is steel?"
The parent, occupied with his reflections, neither heard nor heeded the question.
"Who don't know that, Clem?" replied Robert. "It's what makes father's axe and draw-shave cut: iron won't cut."
"I guess I know that as well as you do. But what makes steel cut any more'n iron? It looks just like it."
"'Cause it's steel."
"You know a great deal about it—don't you?"
"What is it, boys?" said the father, rousing up.
"What is steel, father?"
"It's made out of iron refined and hardened, so as to give it temper."
"What do they do to it?"
"I don't know; it's done in England."
"Will the temper stay there forever?"
"Yes; you can draw it most all out if you heat it, but if you put it in cold water it will come back again."
"What makes you, when you want to burn the handle out of your axe, put wet cloths all over the edge of it?"
"Because I don't want to heat the steel and start the temper."
"What if you did? couldn't you put it into cold water and make it come back?"
"Perhaps I shouldn't get the same temper: if the axe cuts well, I prefer to let well enough alone; if I spoiled it, I should have to go clear to the village to get John Drew to temper it over."
"But, father, I seed you take and put the new broad axe in the fire with no cloth on it, nor nothing, and heat it real hot, so when I spit on it it sissed."
"Yes, my son; but I didn't do that to take the handle out, but to draw the temper. It was so high tempered it broke, and I couldn't do anything with it; so I thought, as it was of no use as it was, I might as well try to draw down the temper, and if I got too much out, it would only be going to Drew after all. Do you understand now, my son?"
"Yes, father; but I heard you tell mother you meant to try to temper an axe."
"I mean to try, dear. That's what I got the iron and steel for."
"Won't you spoil it?"
"I expect I shall, a good many, before I learn."
"Father, I want to see you learn. Can I see you spoil the axes?"
"Yes, child, I shall want you to help me."
"Think you can learn, father?"
"I guess so."
"Then I can learn too. Perhaps there's a man in the steel what lives there and makes it cut."
"If there is, he must have a pretty warm berth sometimes."
"Father, when you learn and I learn, can I make me a hatchet?"
"And me too?" said Robert.
"Yes, I guess so."
Now we intend as briefly as possible to answer Clem's first question. It would be very ridiculous, if a good-looking, nice-feeling boy in the high school, being asked what made his knife cut, should have to stick his thumb in his mouth, look like a dunce, and say, "I don't know."
We must begin with and say a few things in relation to iron, from which steel is made.
The iron ore is put into the furnace, a layer of iron ore and another of coal, together with lime, either in the shape of oyster-shells or stone lime. It is there melted and run into large junks called pigs. The lime causes all the flint, sand, and earthy matters to melt and separate from the iron, which, being heaviest, drops to the bottom of the furnace, while the slag, that is lighter; floats on top, and is taken off. This is cast iron; you see pigs of it piled up on the wharves in seaports, the outside incrusted with the sand in which it was run, and looking as rough, some of it, as the cinders of a smith's forge. It is highly charged with carbon, coarse, hard, and brittle; can neither be filed, welded, nor worked, under the hammer; is more or less filled with slag and other impurities, and fit only, when melted again and purified, to be cast into pots, pans, stoves, wheels, and various articles. It is now melted two or three times more, and slightly hammered, to beat off some of the slag. Then it is made red hot, and put under steam-hammers. In old times it was hammered by water power, or by men with sledges. This is done in order to take out the carbon, that renders it hard and brittle.
Probably by this time you wish to know what carbon is, to extract which from the iron has cost so much labor. Should I give you the definition of the books, you would probably want that definition defined.
Many boys have seen a diamond: that is carbon in a solid form: pit coal is solid carbon mixed with sulphur, phosphoros, and other elements. Charcoal is solid carbon in a nearly pure state. Carbon has so strong an affinity for oxygen, that when any of the substances that contain it are burned, they give up their carbon, that instantly mingles with the oxygen of the air.
Thus, when iron is heated, its pores are opened, the carbon on the outside is carried away by the air, and more is liberated from within, to pass off in the same way; the object of the frequent meltings and the hammering is to expose new surfaces to contact with the oxygen of the air, and get rid of the carbon, just as the farmer turns his hay, and brings new surfaces to the sun, to dry off the dew.
As the result of this we have wrought iron, soft, tough, of close and fibrous, instead of a crystalline or granular texture, that may be made red hot and quenched in water without hardening or becoming brittle; may be welded, split, punched, made into wheel-tires, hoes, shovels, axes, hammers, pitchforks, knives, or razors. But there is one grand defect in this iron, although it is so tractable that it may be worked under the hammer into a thousand different shapes at the will of the smith; may be drawn into wire so fine as to be woven in a loom or made into a watch spring that weighs only the tenth of a grain, and rolled into leaves as thin as paper, insomuch that a pound of raw iron costing a cent affords steel sufficient for seventy thousand watches, worth one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. It is, however, too soft to form a cutting edge that will stand. Make a pitchfork of it, it is harder work to stick it into the hay than it is to pitch the hay, as we know from experience; an axe, it will take all your strength to cut through the bark, and you must grind it every hour; a razor, you can shave but once, and then with tears of agony. Make a hammer of it, and it batters up forthwith; a punch, it bends; a drill, at the first stroke of the sledge it turns.
What next?
Troughs are made of fire-brick, from eight to sixteen feet in length, and two or three feet in depth. The troughs are placed in a furnace, and on the bottom of each of them a mixture of powdered charcoal, ashes, and salt. Bars of wrought iron are laid upon this mixture half an inch apart, to the amount, perhaps, of twelve tons, and covered with charcoal; then another layer of iron and more charcoal, till the trough is full. The top is covered with cement that has been used before, and damp sand. The fire is then made in such a manner that the heat passes all around the troughs, and is kept up from six to ten days, according to the size of the bars and the purposes for which the contents of the troughs are wanted.
The heat of the furnace opens the pores of the iron, and sets free the carbon contained in the charcoal; and as the cement prevents it from escaping and uniting with the oxygen of the air, it enters the pores of the iron and impregnates it. The fire is now suffered to die out, and the metal is taken from the troughs. It is no longer iron, but steel. We now have that which is the "king of metals," and by the aid of which the skilful mechanic can do what would once have been thought miraculous.
The surface of this material is covered with blisters, hence it is called blistered steel. It resounds when struck. Iron once bent remains so; but steel is so elastic that it may be bent to an angle of forty-five degrees, and will spring back to its original position. It is said that Andrew of Ferrara manufactured swords so elastic, that the point of the blade would bend to touch the hilt, and spring back again uninjured. The quality of steel depends upon the quality of the iron from which it is made. The English have carried the art to great perfection, nevertheless are obliged to import the iron from which their razor-steel is made from Sweden. This blistered steel is the kind that lay upon the floor of William Richardson's shop, and in the possession of which he so exulted.
Now you have an article that gives to the axe its temper, the fork its point, the mainspring of the watch its elasticity, and to all tools an enduring edge that may be so attempered as to pierce the hardest rocks and crush the hardest stones; that may be welded to iron, and thus economized. Do you think it strange that Will Richardson rejoiced at the acquisition in his circumstances, or reflected long and seriously in respect to the manner in which he should use his treasures to the best advantage?
And now, perhaps, some thoughtful boy may say,—
"Why be at so great expense of labor and material to take carbon from iron, and then set right at work to put it back again?"
Because there is too much in the cast iron, and so it is all taken out, and just the right amount put in.
"Why not, then, when decarbonizing the cast iron, leave just enough in, and save the labor of three processes?"
This has been attempted, but the results have not given satisfaction. It is not so easy to ascertain when the right amount is left in as when it is put in. The latter can be determined very accurately by means of try-bars, the ends of which are left protruding from the troughs. When, upon drawing one of them out, it is found to be blistered, the process is done. Although blistered steel be so superior to iron, it has imperfections, that impair the quality of edge tools manufactured from it—the result of imperfections in the iron of which it is made. At times there will be differences even in the same bar; one portion will be softer than another, or there will be flaws and shelly places.
When the steel made from such iron is wrought into a tool and ground, the edge is uneven, serrated, softer in one place than another. This amounts to a fatal defect in those articles where great and uniform hardness is required, as in screw-taps, wire-drawers, plates, dies, and stamps for coining and engraving. It is evident, as the carbon is introduced from the surface, that there will be less in the middle than at the outside of the bars; thus the steel is not of a uniform character. In order to obviate this, the bars of steel are made into a fagot heated in a great forge, welded together with a hammer worked by machinery, and drawn into bars, which closes up all the fissures and renders it tough and compact. It is now called shear steel, because shears for dressing cloth were made of it, and it will take a better polish than blistered steel. But the process is not yet completed. Bars of blistered steel that have been the most highly charged with carbon, and are therefore the hardest, are broken into short pieces,—those being put together that are of a like hardness,—and placed in pots of fire-clay, about thirty pounds in a pot, with covers fitting perfectly tight. The pots are placed in a furnace, and the steel in them melted, when it is poured into cast iron moulds, and made into ingots. These are under a tilt-hammer drawn into bars of all sizes. This is cast steel, and it is evident, must be of uniform quality and hardness. This process was discovered in 1750, by a citizen of Sheffield, and for many years kept a secret. It is of this steel that the best tools, swords, knives, and instruments of all kinds are manufactured. But not even shear steel was within the reach of most of the smiths at the date of our story, very little being imported, save in the form of tools.
There is another property pertaining to steel. When heated to a white heat or cherry red, according to its quality, and quenched in water, it becomes hard as glass, and very brittle. The higher the temperature, and the more suddenly it is cooled, the harder and more brittle it becomes. It is this quality that renders steel the "king of metals," and has given to the smith power over all material substances. Even the diamond is forced to yield the palm, for recently steel has been tempered to take its place in cutting glass.
The result of William's reflections was, that, in order to draw and work the large iron now in his possession, he must have better tools and a heavy sledge, as he could upon occasion get one of his neighbors to strike for him. John Bradford lived nearest: he knew that John would be glad to accommodate him, and take his pay in blacksmith work; besides, by employing the same person all the time, that individual would acquire facility, and learn to strike fair.
Commencing with the churn-drill, he cut it off just below the great bulb in the middle, "upset" the end by striking it endwise upon the anvil, and by the aid of Clem, with his stone-hammer, formed it into something like the proper shape for the face end of a sledge. He then partially formed the "pean," or top portion, that in a smith's sledge is wedge-shaped. He wished to punch the hole for the handle before cutting off the rest of the drill, in order to hold it by that part, as he had no tongs that were large enough. To make this hole in so thick a piece needed, he thought, a steel punch, or at least a steel-pointed one. The material was at hand in that part of the drill he had just cut off, only wanting to be pointed.
There was more length than was either necessary or convenient; but he resolved to point first, and shorten it afterwards. Ignorant of the nature of steel, or the degree of heat it will endure, he supposed, as it was very hard, it should be made all the hotter, blew up the fire, and treated it just as he would a piece of wrought iron. The drill had been imported from England,—as were nearly all the tools in that day,—was pointed with the best of double shear steel, and hardened all that it would bear. The result was, that the moment he struck it with his hammer, it crumbled and fell to pieces, like so much brick, till, as there was but about four inches of the steel, nothing remained except the iron to which it had been welded.
Richardson stood looking at the fragments in utter despair. To lose that steel was almost like losing a limb; but it was gone past redemption. It had cost him something to learn that steel will not bear so much heat as iron. Afraid to meddle with the other end of the drill, he resolved, since it needed very little alteration, to take off the corners and square the end on the grindstone; but it proved so hard that he soon gave up the attempt, and felt that he must run the risk.
"I'll try it," he said; "no doubt John Drew spoiled plenty of steel when he was apprentice, and had a master at his back, to boot."
Well aware that the other steel was burned, he watched it narrowly, put on plenty of sand, and before it was white hot, worked it without difficulty.
All he knew in regard to tempering was, that steel becomes hard by being quenched in water while red hot, and if plunged in water after that period, less so; while if suffered to cool of itself, it is not so much harder than iron. He was ignorant of a fact most important to a smith, and by the knowledge of which he is enabled to produce any degree of temper he pleases, after practice and experience of the different qualities of the various kinds of steel; to wit, that the gradations from extreme hardness to extreme softness are denoted by the different colors it assumes while cooling.
Trying with a file the punch that had now cooled on the forge, he found that it was quite soft, and supposed it needed hardening. Heating it as hot as he dared, he plunged it in water, held it there till cold, and then twisted a withe around it for a handle.
He now took a welding heat on his iron, that it might punch the more easily, and set Robert to hold it, while Clem held the punch. So much time was occupied in placing the iron and punch, and instructing the boys how to hold both, that it had cooled, and become harder to punch; nevertheless, he resolved to try it, and lifting the great beetle, struck with all his might upon the punch. At the second blow it broke in two, as short as a pipe-stem.
Clem, who had followed every motion, seeing the blank look of his father, began to cry; while Rob ran to tell his mother.
"Jackass that I was," he said, "to make that punch so hard. Didn't I know that I could punch hot iron with an iron punch, and have done it?"
Finding that there was still a little steel left, he put it in the fire again, let it cool to a black heat before he quenched it, then punched his hole, and finished the sledge. By patient perseverance, and after many ineffectual attempts, he succeeded in learning to weld steel to iron, and made himself several pairs of tongs of different shapes and sizes, also flat punches of files, but of low temper, also chisels. He did not dare to make them hard, as he did the punch; so he let them become almost cold before quenching.
He shod Montague's horse, making all the nails and two new shoes; but he was all day about it, and had nothing better to pare the hoof than a jack-knife. No matter for that—the thing once done, and done right: facility is the result of practice.
Thus far our smith had by no means realized the benefits anticipated from the possession of steel. He had, indeed, ascertained what degree of heat it would bear, learned to weld it to iron, made some punches that were a little better than iron ones, and yet he was as far removed from a knowledge of tempering that would enable him to forge and finish a reliable tool of any kind as before; since to heat a piece of steel and plunge it in water, making it so hard and brittle as to be useless, or quenching it when nearly cold, thus rendering it about as soft as iron, did not amount to anything practically.
And yet this man aspired to make an axe; yes, even had dim visions of plane-irons, draw-shaves, chisels, and gouges manufactured by William Richardson, edge tool maker. Aspired, did I say? The expression is too feeble. The idea absorbed his thoughts, and, ever present to his mind, assumed the character of a passion. It was not a mere whim, but based upon solid grounds.
There were but few ploughs in the place, and not many horses, and they were not shod all round except in the winter. But the axe was in universal use, subject to continual wear, and frequently broken. John Drew was celebrated for giving to his axes a high temper, that rendered them liable to break in frosty weather; one cause of which probably was, that he made up a lot of axes, and then tempered the lot. Upon tempering days he was always more or less under the influence of liquor. Indeed, he thought he could not temper an axe properly, unless he was half drunk; and it must be allowed that many of his neighbors were of the same opinion, while others said, he wanted them to break, in order that he might have a job of repairing. It was too early in the season to plough; the ice had broken up in the river, and having first driven the logs, cut and hauled in the winter, to the mill, he gave his undivided attention to the work, and employed John Bradford to help him cut up and draw the large bar of iron purchased at the store, while Clem and Robert mounted on a block—not being tall enough to reach the handle without—and blew the bellows. John had not struck through two heats with the large sledge when the stone anvil broke in two. This mishap, however, was soon repaired, as there was no lack of stones.
While they were placing another stone on the stump, David Montague came in.
"Neighbor Richardson," said he, "it is too bad that a man who is possessed of the industry and ingenuity you are, should be so put to it for tools, and be obliged to work iron on a stone. Now I tell you what I'll do with you. I mean to get out timber and boards in the course of next year to build me a frame house the year after; 'twill take two years to make the shingles and clapboards, hew the frame, and put the house up. Now I'll advance you money to buy an anvil beck (beak) horn, stake, tools to head nails with, and you may pay me in work, shoe my horse and oxen, and make all the nails for my house. I shan't want a nail under a year, and not many under fourteen months, so that you can make them next winter, and at odd jobs."
Nails were then made by hand, of wrought iron. The stake was a species of anvil of small size, and used to point horse-nails on. The beak horn was a very necessary thing at that day, used for welding hollow articles, and for work upon plough irons.
"I am sure, neighbor, you couldn't do me a greater favor, for I need an anvil sadly, though I can get along without the stake and the beck horn."
"You can, perhaps, at present, but you will soon need them both. I don't think you ought to feel under the least obligation to me, for in advancing this money, I am benefiting myself and the whole neighborhood more than you. It will save me and all of us many a hard tramp through the woods. Besides, I don't like to get down on my knees to John Drew, beg him to work for me, and then pay him twice as much as it is worth."
"So I say, neighbor," said Bradford, "though—to give the devil his due—Drew is as good a blacksmith as ever stood behind an anvil, but mighty uncomfortable. But where are you going to get the bricks, neighbor, to build your chimneys?"
"Make them, John; there's sand and clay both in my pasture. So you see there's work enough for two years to hew the frame, make the shingles and clapboards, cut logs for boards, and make and burn the bricks."
Richardson improved the opportunity, while assisted by Bradford, to forge the polls or iron portion of two axes, and split up iron for nail-rods and also for horseshoes. He had never seen any one temper a tool, but he had often struck for Drew to forge axes; had seen him weld the steel to the iron, and knew he could do that. Although he had hired John to help him draw the large iron, because he could not do it, even with the aid of the boys, without great outlay of both time and labor, he didn't care to expose his awkwardness before him. In short, he preferred to be alone while adventuring upon this portion of the work, in order that he might study out the matter as he went along with no witness to his mistake but the boys, and as for tempering, we have seen how little he knew in respect to that.
The next morning he made his steel in the shape of a wedge, and split a corresponding crevice in the blade of the axe, and not quite so wide as the steel was thick, in order that it might bind on the sides as it entered, to hold it while heating, and put the whole in the fire for a weld. At the first trial the steel fell out on the ground the moment he struck it, and he lost his heat. He now shut the slit together so that the steel did not quite reach to the bottom, closed it up on the steel a little harder, put the axe in the fire, and before striking, struck the edge of the steel against the side of the anvil, to drive it home to the bottom of the slit, and thus succeeded in making a perfect weld.
But now came the crisis—to temper it. All depended upon this. So important a tool was an axe at that day, men wouldn't hesitate to travel twenty miles additional to a smith who had the reputation of excelling in the art, and no excellence of form or finish could compensate an axe-man for its absence.
He was well aware the reason the punch broke was on account of its hardness, and also that if he had, after putting it in water, let it cool some, it would have been less brittle; but he also knew the harder a tool is, the keener it cuts, and, forgetful of the fault in Drew's axes, imagined he could not get it too hard to cut wood. He thought there must be a vast difference between wood and iron, and that the harder the better; it would never break in wood.
Therefore, after finishing as well as he could, he made it as hot as he could without burning, and quenched it, put in a handle, and set to work grinding. The axe proved so hard, although he had made the blade very thin by hammering, that it was almost impossible to grind it, though he put a liberal allowance of sand on the stone. Susan and the boys took turns at the stone, the father encouraging them by declaring that it would cut like a ribbon, for it was harder than Pharaoh's heart.
The implement was ground at length. Richardson whet the edge and forthwith proceeded to a large hemlock that grew near, to try it. If unskilled in making, he was very far from being a novice in the use of an axe.
At the first blow he cried to his family, who were all gathered at the foot of the tree, his wife with the babe in her arms,—
"It's going to cut; I know it is."
Leaving the keen instrument buried in the wood, he pulled off his outer garments. The blows now fell thick and heavy.
"Cuts like a razor. Throws the chips well. Never saw an axe work easier in the wood," broke from him at intervals, while the children clapped their hands and capered around the tree till it came crashing to the ground.
The hemlock was scrubby, and one of the lower limbs was dead. Richardson struck the axe into it with all his might; but when he pulled it out, there was a piece of steel out of the middle of the bitt as large as a half-dollar.
Greatly to the surprise of his wife, he manifested no symptoms of discouragement at this disappointment in the moment of victory; he merely said, as with one foot on the butt of the tree, he looked at the shining and crystalline surface of the fracture,—
"Well, I've found out the temper that will shave the wood. I must now find out the highest temper that will stand hemlock knots."
The next thing Richardson did was to try with a file his saw and a draw-shave that cut well. He found they bore no comparison in hardness with the axe he had just broken, yet they were both wood tools, and good ones. He then tried a chopping axe made by Drew. It was softer still, but it cut well and stood hemlock, fir, and spruce knots. He now understood that tools for wood, especially where blows were given, did not admit of a very high temper.
"I wish," he said, "I did know how it is that blacksmiths tell when steel cools down to a right temper. How I wish I had asked Tom Breslaw!" He sat down on the butt of the tree to reflect. Clem seated himself by his side, while Robert, standing on the tree, wiped the drops of sweat from his father's brow.
"Father," said Clem, at length, clambering into his parent's lap, "what you going to do with the axe now?"
"I'm going," said he, putting his arm fondly around the little questioner, "to try and make it just hard enough to cut, and not break or turn."
"How will you know, father, when you've got just enough out?"
"Guess at it. I can't do any better. If I only had a watch or clock, I'd let it cool two minutes, then four, and see what that would do. Do you understand, my little man?"
"I don't know, father; ain't it just like when mother takes a candle, makes a mark on it with her knitting needle, and says, 'When the candle burns down to that mark, 'twill be half an hour, and then you'll have to go to bed, Clem?'"
"Something like it; but I want something that will tell the minutes."
"Then it would be two minutes hard, father," cried Clem, who, with both arms around his parent's neck, had almost got into his mouth. "How funny! Shall I go borrow Mr. Montague's watch?"
"Not now, dear."
Taking the boy by the hand, and the axe in the other hand, he walked thoughtfully towards the shop.
After heating to a cherry red, he laid it on the forge to cool, began to count, and continued counting till the axe was cool. He then chalked down the number on his bellows.
"Father?"
"Don't bother me now, dear;" and he began to think aloud.
"This axe was as hard as glass before I het it; now the temper's all out. It has taken while I could count sixty-four to come out. Now, if sixty-four takes out the whole, thirty-two ought to take out half, sixteen a quarter, eight an eighth. The temper is put into steel when it's put into water; and the hotter the steel, and the quicker the chill, the harder it is. What made that axe so hard was, that I het it so hot, and chilled it quick. If I had made it only half as hot, and then put it in water, the temper wouldn't have begun but half as soon, and then it would have been only half as hard. I guess that axe's about an eighth too hard. I'll heat it just as hot as I did before, and count eight, then put it in water. I wonder if that'll be the same thing as though I hardened it at full heat, and after that found some rule by which to reduce the temper. I'm afraid it won't. Let me think of it." He sat down on the forge, while Clem, not daring to speak, stood with his great round eyes staring anxiously in his father's face.
"I had an axe of John Drew once that was too hard—kept breaking; but it cut like a razor. I was afraid to touch it to draw the temper; but one day I put the 'poll' of it in the fire to burn the handle out, and the wet cloths I had on the steel to keep it cool got dry while I was talking with a neighbor, and the poll got red hot. I thought I'd drawn all the temper out and spoilt it, but after that it was just hard enough. Now I'll just do the same thing again."
He heated the whole axe, steel, and all, then quenched the whole of the steel in water till it was cold, leaving the rest of the axe red hot.
"Now I'll let that hot iron draw on the steel while I count eight."
He did thus, then quenched the whole; tried it in the knot; it broke, but very little; put it in again, and counted sixteen. It was too soft; the edge turned.
"I don't believe but that red-hot iron draws too savage on the steel; takes the temper out too fast. I'll draw it more gradual and count the same number of times."
He now dipped the whole axe in water, edge first, took it out directly, put the poll only on the outside of the fire to keep up a gradual heat, counted sixteen and quenched it. The axe cut much better and neither broke nor turned. He thought he would heat it, count but twelve, and thus see if it wouldn't bear a little higher temper. Just as he was about to take it from the fire little Sue came to call him to dinner.
"Tell your mother I can't come yet; don't know when I can come; to eat dinner, and not wait for me."
"Nor me, nuther," said Clem. "I ain't coming till father comes."
He quenched the axe, put the poll on the fire, and while looking at it and counting, thought he noticed a flaw in the steel. Rubbing it in the sand and coal-dust of the forge till it was bright, he found it was only the edge of a scale raised by the frequent heats. But his attention was instantly arrested by seeing the bright steel change under his eye to a pale yellow, commencing at the point where the steel joined the iron, and gradually extending over it; while he looked, it changed to a darker shade, became brown, almost purple. He had now counted twelve, and quenched it. When he took the axe from the water, the same tinge was on the steel. The axe now cut better and stood well. But he had got hold of an idea he meant to follow out.
"I wonder what those colors are," he said. "Who knows but they may be the temper? Just as fast as the temper was let down they changed—grew darker. Wonder what they would have come to, if I hadn't quenched the steel. I'll know." Heating the axe once more, he rubbed it bright, and looked for the colors. For a little time the steel was white; then the pale straw color appeared again, growing darker, till it became brown, with purple spots, then purple, light blue, pigeon blue; then darker, almost black.
"O, father, what handsome colors!"
No reply. Much excited, he quenched the steel, and determined to ascertain whether the colors represented different degrees of hardness. When he found, by careful experiment, they did, he caught the wondering boy in his arms, ran into the house crying,—
"Now, my boy, we've got something that's a better regulator than David Montague's watch, your mother's candle, or counting, either."
Entering the house he shouted,—
"Sue, I've got it! I've found how the blacksmith's do it, or, if I haven't, I've found a way just as good."
His progress was now rapid; he soon ascertained the proper temper for all kinds of tools. The steel of the axe he had experimented with had been through the fire so many times that the life of it was all gone. He therefore put new steel in it, improved the shape somewhat, ground the whole surface of it before tempering, to take off the hammer marks,—for he had not learned to hammer smooth,—tempered it carefully, and hid it away in the shop.
The next week he procured his anvil, beak-horn, stake, and tools for nails. They came from Boston to Portsmouth, from thence to Kennebunkport, by water; on an ox team to the village, and from there up the river in a canoe.
His land joined Bradford's, and they had appointed a day to build a piece of log fence together. Richardson took his new axe with him, having ground it sharp. Watching his opportunity while Bradford was putting some top poles on the fence, he took Bradford's axe, putting his own in the same place. Bradford, without noticing the difference, took it up and began to chop into the side of a tree.
"Whew! How this axe cuts! Gnaws right into the wood. It ain't my axe; it's William's. Will, where'd you get this axe?"
"Made it."
"The dogs you did."
"It is one of those you helped me forge."
"It's worth two of that axe you are using that John Drew made me. Will you sell it?"
"Yes; that's what I made it for."
"May I put it into the knots?"
"Yes; try it in any fair way, and if it breaks or turns, you needn't take it."
Bradford, after making a thorough trial, took it. It was soon noised round that William Richardson had made an axe for John Bradford that beat Drew's all hollow. Every body wondered at the ease with which he took up anything, little knowing the struggle it cost him.
His farming work now came on; but at intervals he made axes that found a ready sale. He made a small pair of bellows in the fall, and a little forge in the chimney corner. The boys learned to make nails, and made nearly all Montague's nails in the winter evenings. He paid less and less attention to farming, and more to working in iron, paid for his land, and built him a frame house. In the autumn of the year that he made the first axe, he found that he could not well make ox and horse-shoes without a vice, and resolved to make something that would answer the purpose.
He began by taking two wide, flat bars of iron, and turned the edge of them over the edge of the anvil, like the head of a railroad spike, in order that, when the flat surfaces came together, these edges might make a face to the vice. To the other ends of each of the bars he welded pieces of the old crane, rendering that portion of the vice that was to fasten to the bench long enough to reach to the ground, and rise eight inches above the edge of the bench, and welded an old horse-shoe on the back side to fasten it to the bench. The other he made but two-thirds as long, and by making a slot in one, with a hole for a pin, and punching an eye in the other, he contrived both to connect them, and form a hinge joint on which the outer leg of the vice might traverse. Two holes were now punched to receive a bolt that was designed to answer the purpose of a screw, one end of which terminated in a head; the remaining portion was punched at short distances with eyes very long and wide, to receive broad, thick keys or wedges that would endure hard driving.
He now set up the permanent portion of his vice, put the lower end into a flat rock set in the ground, and fastened the upper part to the bench, brought up the other side, and put the bolt through both. The hinge at the bottom permitted the outer jaw of the vice to play back and forth on the bolt in order to open or close it. By means of tapering wedges driven into the eyes in the bolt, he could wedge a piece of iron firmly into his vice to file it, could turn the calks of a horse-shoe or set them at any angle he wished. Whenever the vice did not come up to the eye, and the wedge would not draw, he slipped washers—iron rings—over the bolt to fill the space, and then entering the point of his key, drove it with great force. It was not very convenient, but it answered the purpose effectually, for it was substituting the power of the wedge for that of the screw.
"Mother," said Clem, one morning, "will you let me have a piece of your tongs?"
"My tongs, child? What do you want of my tongs?"
"To make some bow-pins—iron ones—for my steer's yoke; father's gone, and said we might play."
"No, child; you're crazy."
"You let father have 'em."
"Well, that was because he wanted a pair of tongs to hold his iron."
"So I want the bow-pins."
"Well, I shan't have my tongs spoilt for nonsense."
"Mother, is that red and white rooster mine?"
"Yes."
"Mine to do what I'm a mind to with?"
"Yes."
In the course of half an hour, Clem, with his rooster under his arm, presented himself at David Montague's door.
"Good morning, Clem. What are you going to do with that rooster?"
"I want to sell him. Andrew said you wanted one."
"Yes; mine froze last winter. What do you ask for him?"
"I'll sell him for that horse-shoe what's hanging on your barn-yard fence."
"What on earth do you want of that horse-shoe?"
"I want to make some bow-pins for my steers."
"Well, you may have it, and after you have made 'em, I want to see 'em."
As William Richardson came home, he saw smoke coming out of the chimney of the shop, and heard the sound of the hammer and sledge. Looking through a chink, he saw the boys busy enough. Clem was behind the anvil. They had flattened out the heel calks of the horse-shoe, straightened it, and lapped one part over the other. Just as he looked in, Clem was putting sand on it; in a few moments he took it from the fire, welding hot: Robert struck with the sledge, and they soon drew it out into a thin, square bar.
"I hope you ain't wasting my iron, boys."
"No, father," said Clem, "it's mine. I sold my rooster to Mr. Montague, and bought it. We are going to make some bow-pins, and we don't want anybody to help nor show us; we want to do it."
At this hint Richardson walked into the house. When Clem took the bow-pins to Mr. Montague, the latter told him to make two pairs, and he would buy them of him.
Settlers now began to flock in; a carriage road was made through the woods; wagons and carts came into use. Montague and others built a sawmill and a grist-mill; the town was incorporated, and Richardson made the mill-chain. This was a wonderful advance from mending the ox-chain before the kitchen fire on a flat stone.
"Neighbor Richardson," said Montague, as he came to get his horse shod, "I was coming home from the village last Tuesday, and met Sam Parker going to get screw-bolts made. Now, it always galls me to have work go out of this place. I think you'd better send to Boston and get tools, so that you can cut screws whenever they are wanted; there will be more call for them every day, for the town is growing fast."
"Thank you, neighbor. I'll think of it."
He resolved to see if he could not make something that would cut screws, before sending to Boston.
It is said that the idea of the principle of gravitation was suggested to Sir Isaac Newton by seeing an apple fall from a tree. He wondered what made it drop to the earth, rather than go in the opposite direction. However that may be, it is certain that a thoughtful man will receive suggestions from things that make no impress upon the stupid and careless.
As William Richardson sat before the fire that night reflecting upon the conversation with Montague, he noticed Clem putting powder into a horn. The boy had rolled a leaf of his last year's writing-book into the form of a tunnel, fastened it with a pin, and was pouring the powder through it.
When the boy had finished, he said,—
"Clem, hand me that paper before you unpin it."
After looking attentively at it for some time, he said to the boy, who, interested in whatever attracted his father's attention, was looking over his shoulder,—
"Clem, the lines on that paper are a screw."
"Be they, father?"
"Unpin the paper."
Clem did so, and they were all straight again.
"How funny, father!"
"Get my square, and you, Robert, go to the wood-pile and get a piece of birch bark—white birch."
After stripping the bark to a thin sheet, he cut it square. He then set off an inch at one corner, and drew a line from that mark to the corner of the paper on the same side, making an oblique line.
"You see that is up hill, boys—don't you?"
"Yes, father."
He then wrapped the bark round the broom-handle.
"Now it climbs right up the broom-handle; that's the way a screw does; it's just getting up hill by going round."
"What's the good of it, father?" said Clem, who was altogether of a practical turn, but had never seen a screw.
"I'm going to try to make one in the morning; then you'll see."
The next day he made a steel bolt, or blank, tapering, and of the size of the screws he thought would be generally needed, leaving the head square, and sufficient length of steel to hold it by in the vice. The next thing to determine was, the pitch or inclination of the thread, and its size. On the edge of a piece of birch bark he set off quarter of an inch, and drew a line from that mark to the edge of the bark, and cut it off, giving the rise or pitch. It was the time of year when boys make whistles. He cut an elder sprout just the size of his bolt, spit on it, and pounded it on his knee with the handle of his knife till the bark came off; this bark he slipped over the bolt, pounded up and boiled some pieces of moose horns, made glue and glued it on solid, put the strip of birch bark around the lower part of the bolt, its straight edge in line with the lower edge, and glued it on. There was now a perfectly true spiral round the bolt, the quarter of an inch offset determining the inclination, and also the size of the thread. He now filed out a fork from a thin piece of iron just a quarter of an inch in width, the two points, chisel-edged, one sixteenth of an inch in width each, leaving a space of two sixteenths between them. Commencing at the narrow end of the birch bark, he followed along its edge, cutting the bark sheath as he went, till he came again to the point from which he started, having cut two spirals through to the steel, with a ridge of bark between them two sixteenths of an inch wide. Putting one side of his fork in the furrow already made, he followed round till he came to the head of the bolt. Placing it in the vice with a three-cornered file, he cut out his thread, the ridges of bark on each side forming a guide for a true thread. With file and cold-chisel he cut out segments in the middle of his bolt, the whole length, leaving the thread on the corners unbroken, thus forming a cutting edge at each corner where the thread was broken. He now hardened and tempered it.
As the next stage of the process, he forged a steel plate,—the ends terminating in handles,—in which he made round holes of various sizes, corresponding to the size of the two ends of his bolt. Into these holes he put this hardened steel screw-tap with plenty of bear's grease, turning it forcibly round with a wrench till the sharp edges at the squares cut a thread on the inside of the hole, and then hardened the plate. With this plate he could cut a screw on the head of a bolt, and with the screw could cut a thread on the inside of a nut. Seizing his broadaxe, he hewed a great spot on one of the logs of the shop, and wrote on it with chalk,—
"SCREW BOLTS CUT HERE."
Having paid for his land, and being able to buy iron, and in the possession of suitable tools to work with, he resolved to make a proper vice with a screw, instead of a bolt. He made the vice-body, taking pattern from John Drew's, of English make; but the screw of a vice must be square threaded, not a diamond thread, like those he had hitherto made; since, being in constant use, the thread would wear off in a short time. He laid out the screw in the same manner as before, except that instead of sheathing it in bark, he dipped it in beeswax till it was coated, and cut the thread with a file and cold-chisel, and instead of putting the screw through both parts of the vice, made a box for it to work in. It is evident he could not cut a thread in the box, that must be square, like that of the screw, with a screw that was square-threaded; neither could he do it with a chisel or file. He did it in this way: he hammered out some steel wire large enough to more than fill the thread of the screw, and wound it around it; then he drove the screw with the wire on it hard into the box, filling it completely, and fastened the ends of the wire. He then turned the screw carefully back, and took it out, leaving the hole lined with the wire.
Richardson had in the house a brass plate that had been on a soldier's belt, and procured from Montague the brass top of a fire-shovel; these he cut up and filed up, putting the filings and pieces into the box between the coils of wire with borax. He wrapped the whole box in clay mortar, and dried the mass; then put it in the fire till the clay was red hot, and the brass melted, which soldered the coils of wire fast to the sides of the box, forming a thread.
With the two springs of a broken fox-trap welded together, he made a spring to throw back the jaw of his vice when the screw was turned. After accomplishing all this, he built a frame shop with a brick chimney, paying Montague in work for the bricks, laying them himself; and now he considered himself entitled to wear a leather apron.