The previous couple of days had been packed with activity.  

Contrary to expectation, the building had not been a bare-bones affair when he'd acquired it.  There'd been a stove, a bed, and some tools left behind.  A welcome discovery, as he'd expected to be living on a hammock strung up in his bedroom until he could arrange the purchase or construction of a bed.    

But while all of that had saved him some trouble, it hadn't trimmed away the strains of the day.  He'd hastily dusted and swept the space before the freight company had made good on final delivery.  Then followed the tedious unpacking, checking, and arrangement of his many tools and machines.  The steam engine had demanded two full hours of adjustment before it would remember how to work again.  Never mind the careful cleaning of the guns he'd brought with him, each demanding an hour of time for proper attention.  It wasn't only the ones he'd used, but also the trade-ins he'd spirited away from London.  A month at sea and a month overland could have insidious effects on even well-packed iron.

But the trials inside were only part of the set-up, as he'd needed to paint the signage and repair some shingles in the roof and nail down loose boards on the walls.

And after all that, customers had come sooner than he'd dared to hope.  That meant a late night sawing of a stock and the cutting down of a barrel and tubular magazine, followed by careful filing and polishing and bluing, and clipping springs to size and laying new spring nacelles, and...

In short, he'd been busy here.  Still, he'd found a moment to set a process in motion that would benefit people he hoped might become friends.  If nothing else, he felt buoyed by the thought of doing a nice turn for some good people.

"Come in, Come in.  I'm over here." Roland called out from where he was crouching, re-filling the water reservoir of his workshop engine.  The machine was in one corner of the shop, where it could be connected to a variety of tools requiring powered rotary motion.  This engine was among the best in the world for his purposes.

He was certain he knew who his visitor was.  He'd sent a telegram to the Oakdale Hotel inquiring about his 'silver-tipped walking stick, which he'd accidentally left behind and hoped they had discovered.  It was a family heirloom of great personal value, after all.  Please respond with all haste. Telegraph costs to be reimbursed.'

None of it was true, of course.  But the hotel was of sufficient quality that they could be counted on to reply with the sad news that no such item had been discovered.  And as Roland had hoped, Clara's hard-working and ill-equipped husband had come by to deliver the message.

It wasn't quite a Machiavellian plan, but Roland was proud of himself for putting it together.

"I've just been feeding my Boulton & Watt miniature, here.  I call her The Gray Lady."  

He set down the kettle of water and came over to the young man, extending his hand, "You may call me Roland.  You must be Mr. Lutz, whose wife serves most ably at the Lick-skillet."

@[Jacob Lutz]

Roland smiled, "Gray well earned, I wager, surviving in these lands and bringing up a family."  

When Roland hazarded to identify the young man, he got an unexpected reply, "Must I?"

This fellow was cagier and more careful than the Englishman had come to expect after speaking to several dozen Americans.  The British were famous for having reserved natures by those who did not know them widely.  But his experience of Americans had generally included an open, happy exuberance.  

The boy had the look of a good yew bow.  Slender and strong.  But also well-worn, hard-used by a hard world.  He was handsome enough, but perhaps the difficulties of life had created inner wounds that taught him to be more cautious than most.

"I suppose you may have a musket-twin in this town," Roland joked, turning away from the lad rather than going immediately to make his mark in the book. 

"Politely noting my interest in the subject, your wife entertained me with a description of her family's firearms.  Including that musket of yours."  Most likely the boy was tired after a day's work, and looking forward to getting back to town so he could eat, drink, and relax for a spell.  Perhaps he'd visit his wife. 

As such, Roland supposed that this delay might be irksome.  He mentally apologized for the theater he'd created here, today.

Going to the stove behind the transaction counter, he retrieved a second kettle and placed it on a stamped metal tray alongside a container of sugar cubes and a small pitcher of milk.  A brass tea-strainer looked out of place beside silvered spoons.  Two mismatched cups and saucers completed the service.  Roland had intentionally taken containers from two different sets to create the impression that he was the sort of man who couldn't afford a full set, and had acquired his cups secondhand.

In fact, that was somewhat true.  But in this case 'secondhand' meant he'd inherited quite nice dishware from his mother.  And while he had not been brought up in the lap of luxury, he'd never needed to endure being impoverished.  There had always been enough, even before he'd convinced himself to take more.

Ignoring the open notebook still, Roland set the service on the countertop and picked up the kettle.  "How do you like your tea?  I confess to being a bad Englishman, myself.  I put enough sugar and milk to lose the leaf, as it were."

He smiled and began pouring out the hot beverage through the strainer and into the cups.

@[Jacob Lutz]

Roland smirked as he finished pouring the tea for himself and his guest. 

"I'm not familiar with that particular fortification," he confessed, "though I presume that I am from much farther afield."

He took up the milk next, adding it to Jacob's cup before his own.   "Ten weeks ago, you would have found me in London.  An apprentice to a great British gunsmith."

Roland began selecting cubes of sugar after finishing with the milk, dropping the cubes into his cup one at a time.  "An apprentice at forty.  Not the trajectory I imagined for myself when I was young man like yourself.  So I made the hardest choice of my life:  Give it all up, and take a chance at becoming my own man somewhere new."

Four cubes.  Not six, because Roland didn't want to raise any eyebrows, and most people would consider that to be excessive.  "I am not a bold man by nature.  I find I admire you Yanks out here on the edge of things, who must make bold choices on every day that ends in 'Y.'"

He took up a small spoon and stirred the contents of his cup, "Perhaps some of that frontier courage will seep into my soul."

A gentle tapping of the spoon on the rim of the cup, before resting it upon the saucer.

"The biggest hurdle I think I'll need to overcome is becoming known to new people.   Indeed, not just known, but trusted to do a job well.  I took an ad out in the town paper, of course.  But not everyone reads the news, and fewer still believe what's printed on its pages."

He glanced at the tray he'd brought, sighing briefly.  "I apologize for not having any tea biscuits.  A man ought to have biscuits for his guests. Something I shall remedy after a visit to the grocer."

Picking up his cup, he took a careful sip, and then made a slight smile of satisfaction.  "Ah.  Good.  A bit hot, still."  

He set the cup down again so that it might cool for a minute.

Finally, like a snail in a mile-long race, he reached over to take the booklet Jacob had prepared for him.  But as he took the pencil in hand and seemed poised to make his mark, he paused once more.

"Perhaps you could help with that, if you're game for extra work?"

Set the hook, Roland.  Reel him in slowly.

@[Jacob Lutz]

Roland chuckled.  "Oh no, my lad.  Not help with the biscuits... though I may take your advice on that score."

He leaned a bit forward, "Help with becoming known."

Abandoning the book and pencil on the counter once more, he ducked down behind the counter and retrieved a box.  This, he set beside the notebook where Jacob might access it.

"I have noticed since you came in here that you are a man one feels comfortable talking to.  I imagine during the course of your duties, as you deliver messages to all and sundry... you must find yourself in many conversations with customers.  Customers I might never interact with, myself.  Either in person or by way of the newspaper."

Roland tapped the cover of the box with a fingertip. 

"There is a revolver in this box.  A five-shot Beaumont-Adams double-action percussion, which I personally converted to .44 Rimfire before I left London.  It's a fine example of the work I can do here.  Many people have percussion weapons that they'd like to convert to modern cartridges. Even muskets like the one you carry are candidates.  But so many gunsmiths have been known to do shoddy conversions. And so many of these older percussion weapons are family heirlooms, or weapons carried in times of war.  Such things have deep personal significance, and are not to be treated lightly.  How are people to know a particular shop's work is to be trusted?"

He picked his cup of tea back up and took a sip.   "Mmm.  Almost perfect."

Then he nodded to the box, "Please, open it up.  Have a look at it."

@[Jacob Lutz]

"Certainly.  Pick it up.  Point it.  Not at me, mind you."  Roland chuckled at his little joke, "But take in the whole feel of it."

Reaching under the counter a second time, Roland retrieved a leather holster and set it next to the box.   One might almost think he had prepared all of these things ahead of time just for this encounter.

"You can even strap it on.  And rest assured, I do not wish this gun pointed at anyone.  Despite my trade in weapons, I'm not a violent person." 

Was that true?  Recent events would seem to argue with him.  Fortunately, young Jacob was not likely to be aware of that.

"I'll tell you what has occurred to me.  You strike me as an honest man.  From even a brief encounter, it's apparent your wife is a serious woman who wouldn't tolerate any other sort of man than one who is honest and true.  The townsfolk will know this about you.  They'll also know that you always sling that musket with you as you go about your trade."

Roland shrugged, "So if you suddenly appear with a pistol at your hip, curiosity will get the better of them.   'Why, Mr. Lutz, I see you have a new firearm.  I don't think I've seen that one before.' "

The Englishman nodded at the young lad, "And then, I count on the magic only you can provide."

Reaching under the counter again, he picked up a box of .44 Rimfire ammunition.  This, he set beside the holster.  Fifty cartridges, worth two-and-a-half dollars.

"I propose that you take that pistol, and take this ammunition.  Find some place you like to target practice.  Fire off twenty or thirty shots, and see how you like it.  Then, when someone inevitably asks you about the pistol... you just tell them.   Tell them what you thought of it.  No embellishments.  No dissembling.  Your honest opinion, and then tell them where you got it."

Taking up his tea again, Roland took a deep sip.  

"Each time a customer walks in here and buys something, mentioning they've spoken to you, I'll give them five-percent off the purchase price, and pay you twenty-five cents besides.  The arrangement can continue as long as you fancy.  I expect big things, but I demand nothing.  What I hope is that you'll consent to give it a try.  And if by some misfortune you get into a scrape and the pistol proves useful?  Well, that's just a bonus, if it keeps Mrs. Lutz from becoming a widow and prevents me from losing my advertiser."

There.  The pitch was made.  Now he had to rely on the temptation of the revolver and the good sense of Mr. Lutz to take advantage of the offer.

Roland finished his tea, setting down the empty cup.  His eyes watched the young man with hopeful anticipation.

@[Jacob Lutz]