told the Lunnon architec' so
when he come down to oversee my work.'

'What did he say?' Dan was sandpapering the schooner's port bow.

'Nothing. The Hall ain't more than one of his small jobs for _him_, but
'tain't small to me, an' my name is cut and lettered, frontin' the
village street, I do hope an' pray, for time everlastin.' You'll want
the little round file for that holler in her bow. Who's there?' Mr.
Springett turned stiffly in his chair.

A long pile of scaffold-planks ran down the centre of the loft. Dan
looked, and saw Hal of the Draft's touzled head beyond them.[3]

[3] See 'Hal o' the Draft' in _Puck of Pook's Hill_.

'Be you the builder of the village Hall?' he asked of Mr. Springett.

'I be,' was the answer. 'But if you want a job----'

Hal laughed. 'No, faith!' he said. 'Only the Hall is as good and honest
a piece of work as I've ever run a rule over. So, being born hereabouts,
and being reckoned a master among masons, and accepted as a master
mason, I made bold to pay my brotherly respects to the builder.'

'Aa--um!' Mr. Springett looked important. 'I be a bit rusty, but I'll
try ye!'

He asked Hal several curious questions, and the answers must have
pleased him, for he invited Hal to sit down. Hal moved up, always
keeping behind the pile of planks so that only his head showed, and sat
down on a trestle in the dark corner at the back of Mr. Springett's
desk. He took no notice of Dan, but talked at once to Mr. Springett
about bricks, and cement, and lead and glass, and after a while Dan went
on with his work. He knew Mr. Springett was pleased, because he tugged
his white sandy beard, and smoked his pipe in short puffs. The two men
seemed to agree about everything, but when grown-ups agree they
interrupt each other almost as much as if they were quarrelling. Hal
said something about workmen.

'Why, that's what _I_ always say,' Mr. Springett cried. 'A man who can
only do one thing, he's but next-above-fool to the man that can't do
nothing. That's where the Unions make their mistake.'

'My thought to the very dot.' Dan heard Hal slap his tight-hosed leg.
'I've suffered in my time from these same Guilds--Unions d'you call 'em?
All their precious talk of the mysteries of their trades--why, what
does it come to?'

'Nothin'! You've just about hit it,' said Mr. Springett, and rammed his
hot tobacco with his thumb.

'Take the art of wood-carving,' Hal went on. He reached across the
planks, grabbed