“Calm yourself, Mrs. Fowl,” said the Sheriff, slowly standing up. “We’ll go find this scalawag, but really—dead or alive? We’re talking about a feller that stole pies, not broke into the bank.”
Mrs. Fowl looked at the lawman like he was a moron. “I know you’re not the brightest creature in the world, Forgo, but my pies are works of art! If I catch that miserable crust criminal, I’ll stuff him with cherries and bake him until he’s a corpus hisself!” The normally genteel lady’s eyes were on fire.
Ignoring the insult, Forgo barked out a few commands. “Gadget, catch your breath and follow us. C’mon Winderiver—we’ve got a pie thief to apprehend.”
“Oooo, Sheriff, can I come too?” said Mr. Timmo with excitement. His life as a small metalsmith was quiet and often dull, so this was thrilling to him.
“Let’s go!” At that, the three Halflings bolted from the fairegrounds and up the road towards Fell’s Corner, the seediest neighborhood in all of Thimble Down. Within five minutes, they’d scoured the area and found no sign of the scofflaw, despite asking a few of the more sober denizens of that street. A second later, Gadget showed up, again wheezing and bent over double to catch his breath.
“Gents, this is my new deputy, Gadget Pinkle.” The deputy waved weakly before going back to his panting and groaning. He was thin and on the tall side, with bright red hair and freckles from head to toe. Dorro even wondered if he had freckles under his hair. “Lad, if you’re going to be my deputy, you’ll need to get in shape. I want you to start jogging and lifting bags of oats. That’ll serve you well.”
“Did you find him, Sheriff?” asked Gadget, finally finding a little wind in his lungs.
“No, you ninny. The thief is not here, nor was he ever. Are you sure he came this way?”
Forgo was beginning to have second thoughts about the young deputy, but remembered Bosco’s early days. He too had been an incompetent wreck, but had grown into one of the greatest heroes Thimble Down had ever known.
“Since we’re here, why don’t we swing by this new smelting enterprise everyone’s talking about. Timmo, would you introduce us?”
Not but a moment later, the trio was in front of what seemed a large cave opening. Some workmen were going in and out of the giant maw, while others were busily framing it in for the colder days to come. The structure was really an enormous burrow, perhaps more of a cavern, but technically, was simply dug out of the side of a hillock. From its roof atop the hill, chimneys spouted out all manner of black smoke and steam, and the sounds of industry were in full gear. To the right of the huge opening was a hastily painted sign on a post: Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works.
As Forgo, Dorro, and Timmo entered the dark factory, they were dazed by the loud noises and bright, flickering glare of fires within. One moment, they were outside enjoying the cool October day, and next they were in an underground labyrinth of flames, smoke, and mystery. The trio walked further into the void, trekking past giant vats of hot liquids, while musclebound Halflings banged on metal with huge hammers and hollered out commands at the tops of their voices.
“Watch out, Stookey—we’re about to pour the iron batch! If you don’t move, you’ll be a piece of toast in seconds.”
“Bwwwa-haaa, Micky, I’d like to see ya try! No one’s ever cooked Stookey McGee and no one ever shall!”
“You two lunkheads shut up and keep your mind on yer work. I don’t need any more injuries; I need healthy workers. Unless, of course, you ladies would like to work somewhere else!”
“But I am a lady!” bellowed Micky.
“Oh, sorry, Mrs. Mick,” said the foreman. “No, errr, offense meant.”
The Halfling named Micky—formally, Mrs. Henrietta Mick—was a short, powerfully built woman who could hammer a piece of iron as well as any of the fellers. She picked up a hot pipe of iron with her tongs and began thrashing it with a mallet, sparks flying everywhere. Singing and whistling, Micky loved her work.
“This is wonderful!” exclaimed the normally placid Mr. Timmo. “My work at the shop is so quiet—this is like a circus to me. I’ve spent my whole life around metal, making household wares and jewelry, yet know so little about how it’s made.”
“That’s because it happens under the earth, my friend.”
The trio turned around to find a portly, well-dressed Halfling in coat, knee breeches, and vest, grinning broadly. “Welcome to my smeltery, Mr. Timmo.”
“Ah, Mr. Bindlestiff! So good to see you again. These are my friends, Sheriff Forgo— and Mr. Dorro, who runs the library.”
“Please call me Hiram. Would you perchance enjoy a tour of our facility?” The three nodded enthusiastically and began following Bindlestiff around the deep, dark space.
“As you can see over here, these large vats are for the smelting and refining of metal ores. We procure vast amounts of ore from the northern mountains and transport them here in wagons. Then we use our coke-powered furnaces to make refined iron, tin, aluminum, copper, nickel, bronze, and zinc. Its brutal work, but the metal industry is the wave of the future! It’s time for Halflings to come out from their dark burrows and step into the light of modernity.”
“Do your workers ever get sick from the fumes?” asked the bookmaster.
“Far from it, Mr. Dorro. Indeed, all the fire and fumes kill hazardous germs and make this the safest place to work, aside from the odd Halfling who gets burnt to death or falls into a boiler. In those cases, at least their demises are swift and painless. They’re just turned into cinders in the briefest heartbeat.”
Dorro gulped at the image, but Bindlestiff just laughed. “Like I said, we have a hard life smelting ore, but someone has to do it, and my workers are happy and enthusiastic.”
Somewhere over his shoulder the sound of a hacking cough echoed throughout the cave, but the industrialist paid it no mind.
“What are they?” said Sheriff Forgo, perhaps a tad too loudly. Sure enough, ambling across the floor of the smeltery were a handful of squat, barrel-like figures carrying long shafts of metal. They were mostly in shadow, but even when silhouetted by flickers of firelight, it was clear they weren’t Halflings.
“Ah, those are our special guests from the North. They are, in fact—”
“Dwarves,” blurted Dorro. “Actually, I’ve never seen one in the flesh before.”
“Quite right, sir,” continued Bindlestiff. “We need to get our precious ores from somewhere, and the Dwarves of the Northern Realm harvest the best from deep within the earth. Granted, it costs more than other minerals, but at Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works, we use only the finest for our alloys.”
“I must say, Hiram, I’m quite grateful you’ve asked me to take on some of your finer projects,” said Timmo glowingly. “It’s been a little slow in my shop this year.”
“You came highly recommended, and, more than that, our work here is for bigger pieces of metal sheeting, rods, and beams. We need specialists like you for the delicate work. Delighted to have your services, Timmo. But I’m afraid that’s all the time I have for you today. Here comes my foreman now—we’re running a surprise inspection this afternoon and are eager to make sure everyone is pulling their weight. Even those Dwarves! Good day, gentlemen.”
The trio all nodded farewell, but Bindlestiff was already on the move with his burly foreman. “Well, Fibbhook, are you ready to crack some heads? ’Tis my favorite part of the day!” He laughed as the pair departed into the murk.
Left alone, Forgo, Dorro, and Timmo made their way back to the sunlight outside the smeltery and had to shield their eyes from the jarring brightness. They were silent for a few moments.
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or depressed,” said Dorro, breaking the lull. “It’s certainly grand to have more Thimble Downers working and prosperous, but at what cost?”
“I don’t see the harm, Winderiver—it’s a solid business,” added Forgo. “And it leaves fewer village folk sitting around drinking honeygrass whiskey and stirring up trouble. That’s good for me.”
“But I do see Dorro’s point,” squeaked Timmo, almost whispering and looking about furtively. “It’s a terribly dirty way to make a living. I don’t like all that black smoke either, despite the fact that I’m actually profiting from this enterprise. Worse, I’m not sure how I feel about that fact. In a weird way, it makes me feel—dirty.”