Free The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time by Samuel Ben White Page A

mentioned a husband. From what he knew of the eighteenth century mind—which was precious little—he would have guessed that a young, single girl would have been the very last person to talk to a stranger.
    Or a last name, he reminded himself. She hadn't mentioned either a husband or a last name. Why was that? He guessed it was because he was a stranger and she thought it best not to give out her full name, but something deep inside him felt like there might be another answer. Was it possible she didn't have a last name? Garison had never been a student of history, but he thought last names had been around since before the eighteenth century. He remembered novels and stories from the medieval era that referred to people as "David of Duncaster" or "Robin of Locksley", but he was sure everyone in 1739 would have a last name. So why hadn't Sarah said hers?
    At this point in his thoughts, Garison had arrived at the door of the smithy. It stood open for, even on a cold day in March (was it still March? He hadn't asked that), a smithy can get awfully hot. He knocked on the door and stepped in.
    A big man in shirtsleeves, holding tongs and a horseshoe in one hand and a large mallet in the other looked up and asked with businesslike friendliness, "Can I help ye?" He was shorter than Garison by four inches, but wider around by ten or fifteen. His arms looked like large Christmas hams and he spoke with a strong Irish accent. He wore the leather apron Garison had seen smiths wear in the history books and tall leather boots that came up past the bottom of his knickers, almost all the way up his instep. Garison guessed the man was allowed to wear shirtsleeves owing to his profession, but it suddenly didn't seem quite fair.
    "Are you Finneas Franklyn?"
    "Aye."
    Garison smiled as affably as he could and said, "Hello. My name's Garison Fitch and, um, I'm new in town. I was told you might be looking for an assistant and I could use the work."
    The man looked Garison over and wondered at the odd clothes. Still, the stranger looked big enough to handle the work of a smithy and Franklyn was on the verge of falling behind his spring workload. Franklyn said, "I was thinking more of someone younger—an apprentice I could train."
    "I'll do any kind of work," Garison quickly assured him. "And I know a bit of metallurgy—working with metals."
    "I know what the word means," Franklyn replied, making Garison blush. Franklyn hammered on the horse-shoe and Garison almost thought he had been forgotten, but then realized the man had to do his work before the metal cooled. When Franklyn had tossed the shoe into a bucket of water, he set down his tools and wiped his hands on his dirty apron. He looked Garison over one more time and said, "I could use someone around here. Town's booming and there's more work here than one man can do alone. But I need someone who learns fast, and learns well. I can't afford to get further behind because I'm spending too much time teaching."
    "I'm a fast learner," Garison assured him.
    Smiling, Franklyn commented, "Well, ye did know the word 'metallurgy.'" The smithy walked over to a rack by the door and pulled an apron like his own off. Tossing it to Garison, he said, "Take off that strange coat of ye'rn and put ye on this. Let's see what ye know."
    Garison quickly shrugged out of his leather jacket and hung it on one of the pegs by the door. As he put on the apron and tied it in the back, Finneas asked, "Where did ye come by those clothes, lad?"
    Garison chuckled in as friendly a manner as he could and said, "Boy, that's a long story."
    "I don't doubt it." Finneas was starting to wonder about his new employee, but the muscles in Garison's arms made him think the young man was no stranger to hard work and might make do. Plus, it wasn't always easy to find someone willing to do smithing.
     
    At the end of the day, Finneas clapped Garison on the back and said, "Let's go home, lad."
    "Uh, OK." After a moment, Garison asked,