“Give a howdy to Goody Berry,” said Alvin, as Mock hopped off the sleigh up the lane from his house.

“I'll say you said so,” said Mock. “And thanks for the ride.” In six steps he was clean gone in the blowing snow. The storm was getting worse and worse.

Once everything was dropped off at the roadhouse, it was near time for Alvin's and Arthur's schooling at Miss Larner's house, so they headed on down there and threw snowballs at each other all the way. Alvin stopped in at the forge to give the deliverybook to Makepeace. But Makepeace must've laid off early cause he wasn't there; Alvin tucked the book onto the shelf by the door, where Makepeace would know to look for it. Then he and Arthur went back to snowballs till Miss Larner came back.

Dr. Whitley Physicker drove her in his covered sleigh and walked her right up to her door. When he took note of Alvin and Arthur waiting around, he looked a bit annoyed. “Don't you boys think Miss Larner shouldn't have to do any more teaching on a day like this?”

Miss Larner laid a hand on Dr. Physicker's arm. “Thank you for bringing me home, Dr. Physicker,” she said.

“I wish you'd call me Whitley.”

“You're kind to me, Dr. Physicker, but I think your honored title suits me best. As for these pupils of mine, it's in bad weather that I do my best teaching, I've found, for they aren't wishing to beat the swimming hole.”

“Not me!” shouted Arthur Stuart. “How do you spell 'championship'?”

“C-H-A-M-P-I-0-N-S-H-I-P,” said Miss Larner. “Wherever did you hear that word?”

“C-H-A-M-P-I-0-N-S-H-I-P,” said Arthur Stuart in Miss Larner's voice.

“That boy is certainly remarkable,” said Physicker. “A mockingbird, I'd say.”

“A mockingbird copies the song,” said Miss Larner, “but makes no sense of it. Arthur Stuart may speak back the spellings in my voice, but he truly knows the word and can read it or write it whenever he wishes.”

“I'm not a mockingbird,” said Arthur Stuart. “I'm a spelling bee championship.”

Dr. Physicker and Miss Larner exchanged a look that plainly meant more than Alvin could understand just from watching.

“Very well,” said Dr. Physicker. “Since I did in fact enroll him as a special student– at your insistence– he can compete in the county spelling bee. But don't expect to take him any farther, Miss Larner!”

“Your reasons were all excellent, Dr. Physicker, and so I agree. But my reasons–”

“Your reasons were overwhelming, Miss Larner. And I can't help but relish in advance the consternation of the people who fought to keep him out of school, when they watch him do as well as children twice his age.”

“Consternation, Arthur Stuart,” said-Miss Larner.

“Consternation,” said Arthur. “C-O-N-S-T-E-R-N-A-T-I-O-N.”

“Good evening, Dr. Physicker. Come inside, boys. Time for school.”

Arthur Stuart won the county spelling bee, with the word “celebratory.” Then Miss Larner immediately withdrew him from further competition; another child would take his place at the state competition. As a result there was little note taken, except among the locals. Along with a brief notice in the Hatrack River newspaper.

Sheriff Pauley Wiseman folded up that page of the newspaper with a short note and put them in an envelope addressed to Reverend Philadelphia Thrower, The Property Rights Crusade, 44 Harrison Street, Carthage City, Wobbish. It took two weeks for that newspaper page to be spread open on Thrower's desk, along with the note, which said simply:

Boy turned up here summer 1811, only a few weeks old best guess. Lives in Horace Guester's roadhouse, Hatrack River. Adoption don't hold water I reckon if the boy's a runaway.

No signature– but Thrower was used to that, though he didn't understand it. Why should people try to conceal their identity when they were taking part in works of righteousness? He wrote his own letter and sent it south.

A month later, Cavil Planter read Thrower's letter to a couple of Finders. Then he handed them the cachets he'd saved all these years, those belonging to Hagar and her stole-away Ishmael-child. “We'll be back before summer,” said the black-haired Finder. “If he's yourn, we'll have him.”

“Then you'll have earned your fee and a fine bonus as well,” said Cavil Planter.

“Don't need no bonus,” said the white-haired Finder. “Fee and costs is plenty.”

“Well, then, as you wish,” said Cavil. “I know God will bless your journey.”

It was early spring, a couple of months before Alvin's nineteenth birthday, when Makepeace Smith come to him and said, “About time you start working on a journeyman piece, Ali don't you think?”

The words sang like redbird song in Alvin's ears, so he couldn't hardly speak back except to nod.

“Well, what do you think you'll make?” asked the master.

“I been thinking maybe a plow,” said Alvin.

“That's a lot of iron. Takes a perfect mold, and no easy one, neither. You're asking me to put a good bit of iron at risk, boy.”

“If I fail, you can always melt it back.”

Since they both knew that Alvin had about as much chance of failing as he did of flying, this was pretty much empty talk– just the last rags of Makepeace's old pretense about how Alvin wasn't much good at smithing.

“Reckon so,” said Makepeace. “You just do your best, boy. Hard but not too brittle. Heavy enough to bite deep, but light enough to pull. Sharp enough to cut the earth, and strong enough to cast all stones aside.”

“Yes sir.” Alvin had memorized the rules of the tools back when he was twelve years old.

There were some other rules that Alvin meant to follow. He had to prove to himself that he was a good smith, and not just a half-baked Maker, which meant that he'd use none of his knack, only the skills that any smith has– a good eye, knowledge of the black metal, the vigor of his arms and the skill of his hands.

Working on his journeyman piece meant he had no other duties till it was done. He started from scratch on this one, as a good journeyman always does. No common clay for the mold– he went upriver on the Hatrack to the best white clay, so the face of the mold would be pure and smooth and hold its shape. Making a mold meant seeing things all inside-out, but Alvin had a good mind for shapes. He patted and stroked the clay into place on the wooden frame, all the time seeing how the different pieces of the mold would give the cooling iron its plow shape. Then he baked the mold dry and hard, ready to receive the iron.

For the metal, he took from the pile of scrap iron and then carefully filed the iron clean, getting rid of all dirt and rust. He scoured the crucible, too. Only then was he ready to melt and cast. He hotted up the coal fire, twining the bellows himself, raising and lowering the bellows handle just like he done when he was a new prentice. At last the iron was white in the crucible– and the fire so hot he could scarce bear to come near it. But he came near it anyway, tongs in hand, and hoisted the crucible from the fire, then carried it to the mold and poured. The iron sparked and dazzled, but the mold held true, no buckling or breaking in the heat.

Set the crucible back in the fire. Push the other parts of the mold into place. Gently, evenly, getting no splash. He had judged the amount of liquid iron just right– when the last part of the form slipped into place, just a bit of iron squeezed out evenly all around the edges, showing there was just enough, and scarce any waste.

And it was done. Nothing for it but to wait for the iron to cool and harden. Tomorrow he'd know what he'd wrought.

Tomorrow Makepeace Smith would see his plow and call him a man– a journeyman, free to practice at any forge, though not yet ready to take on his own prentices. But to Alvin– well, he'd reached that point of readiness years ago. Makepeace would have only a few weeks short of the full seven years of Alvin's service– that's what he'd been waiting for, not for this plow.