Oskar Schmidt dropped six fresh horseshoes onto the table. “People don’t care about displays. If they need horseshoes, they’ll buy horseshoes.”
“Ha! Since I set up the display table, sales have tripled.”
“Stop it, Rochambeau. You know I hate when you arrange the horseshoes like flowers.”
“Don’t slap at me. Go back to the smithy. The Andersens are coming soon and you need to patch their cooking pots.”
“Ach! I’m a blacksmith, not a tinker.”
“And I don’t give a dam ... hmmm ... hmmm.” Rochambeau made his best “see what I did there” face.
Schmidt spat at his partner’s feet. “Stop arranging the horseshoes like flower petals.”
Several minutes later, over the sound of hammer and anvil, Rochambeau called out. “Schmidt, have you seen the inkpot? I need to make a sign.”
Metal clattered to the ground behind the leather curtain that separated the forge from what Rochambeau called “the sales floor.”
“You need to make a what? Our customers can’t read. I can’t read. I’m a little bit suspicious that you can’t actually spell.”
“I just want to make a list of prices. Like the bill of fare at Simon’s Place.”
“Simon serves horsemeat, not horseshoes. Stop bothering me.”
Rochambeau mouthed “horsemeat/horseshoes” several times, then resumed his search for the inkpot. The ache at his temples told him this was going to be a long afternoon.
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