S6 ON SURREY HILLS. 



feather need all look alive when Toby was on the 

 root. 



"Chubby" was the local blacksmith — a short, 

 blear-eyed little fellow, with a face that had an 

 absurdly pathetic expression. It was rarely clean, 

 nor was he ever seen without his leather apron. If 

 he was sent for, to shoe at some gentleman's stables, 

 off waddled Chubby, with dirty face and leather 

 apron. He was a perfect master in his business, and 

 made all the edged tools in use for miles round, 

 axes and handbills. It was a common saying that 

 you could shave yourself with Chubby's axes and 

 billhooks. " Nuthin' never ails me — only thirst," he 

 would say. " Water ain't no good ; tea an' such 

 slops I can't abide nohow ; an' small beer ain't no 

 use. The only thing as will take this 'ere thirst off 

 fur a time is ale, an' plenty of it." He never stinted 

 himself in that matter. Now and again Chubby 

 would lock up the shop, and go for Toby to have 

 what he called " a day on the quiet." At his special 

 request Toby would bring his clarionet, and as the 

 music moved him, Chubby would blink his eyes, 

 smile pathetically, and endeavour to see the bottom 

 of a quart pot in the most expeditious manner pos- 



