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."
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.
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 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 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. 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 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."