john had passed out at the scarred and battered front door, crossed the floor of the veranda, and reached the almost houseless street, for he lived on the outskirts of the town, which was called ridgeville. on the hillside to the right was the town cemetery. the fog, shot through with golden gleams of sunlight, was rising above the white granite and marble slabs and shafts. ahead of him and on the right, a mile away, could be seen the mist-draped steeples of churches, the high roof and cupola of the county court-house. he heard the distant rumble of a coming street-car and quickened his step to reach it at the terminus of the line near by before it started back to the square. the car was a toylike affair, drawn by a single horse and in charge of a negro who was both conductor and driver.
"got a ride out er you dis time, boss," the negro said, with a smile, as john came up. "met some o' yo' hands goin' in. want any mo' help ter tote mortar en' bricks? 'kase if you do, i'll th'o' up dis job. de headman said maybe i was stealin' nickels 'kase de traffic is so low dis spring, en' i didn't turn in much. if you got any room fer—"
"you'll have to see sam cavanaugh," john answered, gruffly. "if you climb a scaffold as slow as you drive a car you wouldn't suit our job."
"huh! dat ain't me; it's dis ol' poky hoss. i'm des hired to bresh de flies offen his back."[pg 9]
the negro gave a loud guffaw over his own wit and proceeded to unhitch the trace-chains and drive the horse around to the opposite end of the car. john entered and took a seat. he drew from the pocket of his short coat a blue, white-inked drawing and several pages of figures which cavanaugh had asked him to look over. a rather pretentious court-house was to be built in a tennessee village. bids on the work had been invited from contractors in all directions and john's employer had made an estimate of his own of the cost of the work and had asked john's opinion of it. john was deeply submerged in the details of the estimate when the car suddenly started with a jerk. he swore impatiently, and looked up and scowled, but the slouching back of the driver was turned to him and the negro was quite unconscious of the wrath he had stirred. for the first half-mile john was the only passenger; then a woman and a child got aboard. the car jerked again and trundled onward. the woman knew who john was and he had seen her before, for he had worked on a chimney cavanaugh had built for her, but she did not speak to him nor he to her. that he had no acquaintances among the women of the town and few among the men outside of laborers had never struck john as odd. there were gaudily dressed women who came from neighboring cities and visited his mother and jane holder now and then, but he did not like their looks, and so he never spoke to them nor encouraged their addressing him. a psychologist would have classified john as a sort of genius in his way, for his whole thought and powers of observation pertained to the kind of work in which he was engaged. cavanaugh half jestingly called him a "lightning calculator," and turned to him for advice on all occasions.[pg 10]
reaching the square, john sprang from the car and, with the papers in his hand and the pencil racked above his ear, he hurried into a hardware-store and approached a clerk who was sweeping the floor.
"we need those nails and bolts this morning," he said, gruffly. "you were to send them around yesterday."
"they are in the depot, but the agent hasn't sent 'em up yet," the clerk answered. "we'll get them around to you by ten o'clock sharp."
"that won't do." john frowned. "we could have got them direct from the wholesale house, and have had them long ago, but sam would deal with you. he is too good-natured and you fellers all impose on him."
"well, i'll tell you what i'll do," the clerk proposed. "i'll send a dray for them this minute and you'll have them on the ground in a half-hour."
"all right," john said, coldly, and turned away.
the building on which he was at work was a brick residence in a side-street near by which was being erected for a wealthy banker of ridgeville, and as john approached it he saw a group of negro laborers seated on a pile of lumber at the side of the half-finished house.
"here comes john now," one of them said, and it was significant that his given name was used, for it was a fact that a white man in john's position would, as a rule, be spoken of in a more formal manner, but to whites and blacks alike he was simply "john" or "john trott." this was partly due, perhaps, to his youth, but there was no doubt that john's lack of social standing had something to do with it. he had been nothing but a dirty, neglected street urchin, a playmate of blacks and the lowest whites, till cavanaugh had put him to work and[pg 11] had discovered in him a veritable dynamo of physical and mental energy.
"good morning," several of the negroes said, cordially, but john barely nodded. it was his way, and they thought nothing of it.
"has sam got here yet?" he inquired of a stalwart mortar-mixer called tobe.
"no, suh, boss, he 'ain't," said the negro. "i was gwine ter see 'im. i'm out o' sand—not mo' 'n enough ter las' twell—"
"four loads will be dumped here in half an hour," john broke in. "did you patch that hose? don't let the damn thing leak like it did yesterday."
"it's all right, boss. she won't bust erg'in." the negro smiled. evidently he had not washed his face that day, for splotches of whitewash with globules of dry mortar were on his black cheeks and the backs of his hands.
the whistle at a shingle-factory blew. it was eight o'clock, the hour for work to begin.
"mort'!" john's command was directed to two mortar-carriers, who promptly grasped their padded wooden hods and made for the mortar-bed where tobe was already shoving and pulling the grayish mass to and fro with a hoe.
john hung up his coat on the trunk of an apple-tree into which some nails had been driven, and took his trowel and other tools from a long wooden box with a sloping water-proof lid. he was about to ascend the scaffold when he saw cavanaugh approaching and signaling to him to wait.
the contractor was a man of sixty years, whose beard and hair were quite gray. he was short and stocky, slow[pg 12] of movement, and gentle and genial in his manner. he had been a contractor for fifteen years, and had accumulated nothing, which his friends said was owing to his good nature in not insisting on his rights when it came to charges and settlements. widows and frugal maiden ladies would have no one else to build for them, for sam cavanaugh was noted for his honesty and liberality, and he was never known to use faulty material.
"mort' there! get a move on you, boys!" john was eying his employer with impatience as he approached. "fill all four boards and scrape the dry off clean!"
"wait a minute, john!" cavanaugh said, almost pleadingly. "i want to see you about the court-house bid. i want to mail it this morning."
"what! and hold up this whole gang?" john snorted, impatiently.
"oh, let 'em wait—let 'em wait this time," cavanaugh said. "where are the papers?"
with a suppressed oath, john went to his coat and got them. "i haven't time to go over all that, sam," he answered. "wait till dinner-time."
"but i thought you was going to look it over at home," the contractor said, crestfallen, as he took the papers into his fat hands.
"oh, i've looked them over, all right," john replied, "and that's the trouble—that's why it will take time to talk it over."
"you mean— i see." cavanaugh pulled at his short, stiff beard nervously. "i'm too high, and you are afraid i'll lose the job."
"too high nothing!" john sniffed, with a harsh smile. "you are so damned low that they will make you give double security to keep you from falling down on it.[pg 13] say, sam, you told me you was in need of money and want to make something out of this job. well, if you do, and want me to go up there in charge of the brickwork, you will have to make out another bid. i'm done with seeing you come out by the skin of your teeth in nearly every job you bid on. when a county builds a court-house like that they expect to pay for it."
"why, i thought— i thought—" cavanaugh began.
but john broke in: "you thought a thousand dollars would cover the ironwork. it will take two. the market reports show that steel beams have gone out of sight. nails are up, too, and bolts, screws, locks, and all lines of plumbing material."
"why, john, i thought—"
"you don't keep posted." john glanced up at the scaffold as if anxious to get to work. "then look at your estimate of sash, doors, blinds, and glass. you are under the cost by seven hundred at least. and where in god's world could you get slate at your figure? and the clock and bell according to the requisition? sam, you made those figures when you were asleep."
"then you think i could afford— i want the job bad, my boy—do you reckon i could land it if i raised my offer, say by fifteen hundred?"
"you will have to raise it four thousand," john said, thoughtfully. "think of the risk you would be running. if the slightest thing goes crooked the official inspectors will make you tear it down and do it over. look at your estimate on painting," pointing with the tip of his trowel at a line on the quivering manuscript which the contractor held before his spectacled eyes. "you are away under on it. white lead is booming, and oil and varnish, and[pg 14] you have left out stacks of small items—sash cords, sash weights, and putty."
"then you think this won't do?" cavanaugh's face was turning red.
"do? it will do if you want to present several thousand dollars to one of the richest counties in tennessee. why, one of those big farmers up there could build that house and give it to the state without hurting himself, while you hardly own a roof over your head."
"you may be right about my figures," cavanaugh muttered. "say, john, i want to get this bid off. leave the bricklaying to pete long and come over to the hotel and write it out for me."
"and let him ruin my wall?" john snorted. "not on your life! his mortar joints are as thick as the mud in the cracks of a log cabin. i'll do it to-night after i go home, but not before. i don't believe any man ought to let one job stand idle in order to try to hook another. to-morrow is saturday. they couldn't get the bid anyway till monday. there will be plenty of time."
as john finished he was turning to the scaffold. "well, all right," cavanaugh called after him. "that will have to do."[pg 15]
