had ever handled, or any man, woman, or child he had ever met.
just then he was very proud of the Village Hall at the entrance of
the village, which he had finished a few weeks before.

'An' I don't mind tellin' you, Mus' Dan,' he said, 'that the Hall
will be my last job top of this mortal earth. I didn't make ten
pounds - no, nor yet five - out o' the whole contrac', but my
name's lettered on the foundation stone - Ralph Springett, Builder
- and the stone she's bedded on four foot good concrete. If she
shifts any time these five hundred years, I'll sure-ly turn in my
grave. I 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 o' the Draft's touzled head beyond
them. [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