The Forge

           Withmattedbeard,andswathedinabristlingshark-skinapron,aboutmid-day,Perthwasstandingbetweenhisforgeandanvil,thelatterplaceduponaniron-woodlog,withonehandholdingapike-headinthecoals,andwiththeotherathisforge’slungs,whenCaptainAhabcamealong,carryinginhishandasmallrusty-lookingleathernbag.Whileyetalittledistancefromtheforge,moodyAhabpaused;tillatlast,Perth,withdrawinghisironfromthefire,beganhammeringitupontheanviltheredmasssendingoffthesparksinthickhoveringflights,someofwhichflewclosetoAhab.

           "ArethesethyMotherCarey’schickens,Perth?theyarealwaysflyinginthywake;birdsofgoodomen,too,butnottoall;lookhere,theyburn;butthouthouliv’stamongthemwithoutascorch."

           "BecauseIamscorchedallover,CaptainAhab,"answeredPerth,restingforamomentonhishammer;"Iampastscorching-,noteasilycan’stthouscorchascar."

           "Well,well;nomore.Thyshrunkvoicesoundstoocalmly,sanelywoefultome.InnoParadisemyself,Iamimpatientofallmiseryinothersthatisnotmad.Thoushould’stgomad,blacksmith;say,whydostthounotgomad?Howcan’stthouendurewithoutbeingmad?Dotheheavensyethatethee,thatthoucan’stnotgomad?Whatwertthoumakingthere?"

           "Weldinganoldpike-head,sir;therewereseamsanddentsinit."

           "Andcan’stthoumakeitallsmoothagain,blacksmith,aftersuchhardusageasithad?"

           "Ithinkso,sir."

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