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ample mouth broke into a kind of grin. “Not too many laddies hereabouts fool enough to sweat for nothing.”
    “But,” countered James, “I presume ‘nothing’ would include a good midday meal?”
    The hammer paused in mid-action as the smith looked across at him. He placed the sheet on the anvil and neatly hammered off a portion, and thrust it into the glowing charcoal and pumped the bellows. “Aye, I might be able to offer that, if ye’re nae agin a big bowl of porridge with molasses, even a bit of milk from time to time.”
    “Better and better,” James responded, and replaced his hat. “Well sir, my name is —” He stopped. “James,” he said. “James Alford.” Why not? Must get a start on this new identity, he realized, coming here now among British settlers. James paused in the doorway. “And you are, sir?” The smith snorted. “Everyone knows me, laddie. There’s only two of us, and I’m the better. Robbie MacGregor.”
    “Why thank you, Mr. MacGregor. You’ll be hearing from me.”
    “We’ll see to that,” said MacGregor. “We’ll surely see to that.” But then as James was going out, he called after him. “Och, listen, will ye, I’ve got a thing I’d pay for, if ye were of a mind...”
    “Oh yes?”
    “Charcoal. Most of it comes from the Old Country. Expensive. But the making, nothing to it. Ye could have a go at preparing me some. I’d pay ye fer that.”
    “Not considered the best nor cleanest occupation,” James blurted out, not giving it a lot of thought, and partly to challenge the smith.
    “No, but not the most difficult neither. Ye must only select suitable quantities of wood, build them into a beehive-like structure,” the smith waved his hot tongs, gesturing, “maybe the size of a small house, make sure it’s got some ventilation holes built in — the ends can be open or closed — and ye put over the top some sod or earth and ye start a little fire.” He grinned, revealing large and somewhat decayed teeth. “Ye make it burn for, like, a month. Ye gotta control it, mind, so’s it burns enough, but not too much, and doesn’t burn up. Ye’d enjoy that, maybe?”
    “I’ll think about it, Mr. MacGregor. Thank you.” But as James passed down into the street, he said to himself: No sir! Not on your life! But otherwise, a start. Any possibility is better than none, he thought, as he started down a street toward the Garretts.
    What next? He turned eastward toward another house with a shed in front that he remembered seeing on his previous visit. A simple sign outside proclaimed: John Gilchrist, cabinet-maker. He wondered if perhaps the cabinet-maker would be willing to part with a few pence a day for an energetic assistant.
    James entered the yard where, in front of a shed, Mr. Gilchrist and his apprentice were making a long pine table. He’s got one helper, James thought to himself, I doubt he’ll need two. But no harm in trying.
    So the conversation with the blacksmith was repeated once more, except this time to even less effect. One apprentice was all the cabinet-maker could handle or pay for. James gave his thanks and left.
    Well, the moment had come to risk facing Will Garrett Sr. whose son Will had tried to turn him over to a JP in a drunken moment. But take time now, he thought, take in your surroundings. Should danger strike, better know the layout of the town.
    A man passed him and doffed his hat. “Good afternoon to you, sir,” he called, to which James replied, “Fine day.”
    “For sure, fine day ’tis.”
    Must be upwards of sixty dwelling here, thought James, a goodly settlement. Now multiply that by the number of wives, children, and their grandparents. Well established too. He knew the majority had come in 1784, almost seven years after the Revolutionary War, though many had left after the first few harsh winters to return to the Old Country or to set up homes in a slightly more temperate clime down in Nova Scotia. But here, these hardy