The residence on which John was at work was almost finished. He was on
the highest scaffold one morning, superintending the slating of the
roof, when, hearing Cavanaugh shouting on the sidewalk below, he glanced
down. The contractor, with his thin alpaca coat on his arm, was
signaling to him to come down.
"All right," John said. "In a minute. I'm busy now. Don't throw the
broken ones away," he added to the workers. "Stack 'em up. We get
rebates on them, and have to count the bad ones."
"Right you are, boss," a negro answered, with a chuckle. "Besides, we
might split somebody's skull open."
"Oh, come on down!" Cavanaugh shouted again, with his cupped hands at
his lips. "I want to see you."
"I can't do two things at once," John said, with a frown and a
suppressed oath. "Say, boys, get that next line straight! Look for
cracked slate, take 'em out, and lap the smooth ones right."
He found Cavanaugh near the front fence. The contractor was fond of
jesting when he was in a good humor, and from his smiling face he seemed
to-day to be in the best of spirits.
"No use finishing the roof," he said, squinting along the north wall of
the building. "That wall is out of plumb and has to come down. Great
pity. Foundation must have settled. That's bad, my boy."
"Well, it was _your_ foundation, not mine," John retorted, seeing his
trend. "What do you want?"
Slowly Cavanaugh took a letter from the pocket of his baggy trousers and
held it in his fat hands. "What you think this letter is about?" He
smiled with tobacco-stained lips.
"How the devil would I know?" John asked, impatiently.
"Well, I'll tell you," Cavanaugh continued. "It is from the Ordinary of
Chipley County, Tennessee. He says he is writing to all the many bidders
on that court-house to let 'em know the final decision on the bids. He
was powerful sorry, he said, to have to tell me that I was nowhere nigh
the lowest mark. Read what he says."
Wondering over his friend's mood, John opened the letter. It was a
formal and official acceptance of the bid made by Cavanaugh. Without a
change of countenance John folded the sheet, put it into the envelop,
and handed it back. Some negroes were passing with stacks of slates on
their shoulders.
"Be careful there, Bob!" he ordered, sharply. "You drop another load of
those things and I'll dock you for a day's pay."
"All right now, boss," the negro laughed. "I got erhold of 'em."
"Well, what do you think?" Cavanaugh's gray eyes were twinkling with
delight. "Lord! Lord! My boy, I feel like flying! I've laid awake many a
night over this, and now it is ours. Gee! I could dance! I told Jim Luce
about it at the post-office just now. He is going to write it up in his
paper. Gosh! I'm glad this house is finished! We are foot-loose now and
can set in up there whenever we like."
It was like John Trott to make no comments. He was watching the workers
on the roof with a restless eye. The air resounded with the clatter of
the hammers and the grating of the slates one against the other as they
were selected and put down.
"You are an odd boy," Cavanaugh said, with a pleased chuckle. "What are
you looking at up there?"
"They are not on to that job." John frowned. "Those coons work like they
were at a corn-shucking. They don't drive the nails right. They are
breaking a lot of slate and losing enough nails to shingle a barn."
"Oh, they are all right." Cavanaugh spat and chewed unctuously. "Gee!
What if they do break a few slates? We are in the swim, my boy, and
we'll give that county the prettiest court-house in the state, and the
people will appreciate it." Therewith, Cavanaugh put his hand on John's
arm and the look of merriment passed. "I've got to say it, my boy, and
be done with it. You kept me from making a dern fool of myself and
losing the little I have saved up. If it hadn't been for you--"
"Oh, cut it out, Sam!" There was an expression of embarrassed irritation
on the young man's face. He was turning to leave, but Cavanaugh, still
holding his arm, drew him back.
"I won't cut it out!" He all but gulped, cleared his throat, and went
on: "I owe you my thanks and an apology. Only yesterday I got weak-kneed
because I hadn't heard from up there, and told Renfro and some others
who wanted to know about the bid that I had done wrong to listen to as
young a man as you are. I said that, and even talked to my wife about it
the same way, and now we all see you was right. John, I don't intend to
let you keep on at your old wages. You are not getting enough by a long
shot, and from now on I'll give you a third more. I'm going to make some
money out of this deal and you deserve something for what you have
done."
John looked pleased. "Oh, I'll take the raise, all right," he said, with
one of his rare smiles. "I can find a use for the money."
"Say, John"--Cavanaugh pressed his arm affectionately--"this will be our
first jaunt away any distance together. We can have a lot o' fun. I'm
going to order me a new suit of clothes, and I am going to make you a
present of one, too. You needn't kick," as John drew back suddenly, "it
will be powerful small pay for all the figuring you did at night when
you was plumb fagged out."
"Well, I'll take the suit, too," John said, and smiled again. "You are
liberal, Sam, but you always was that way."
"Well, we'll go to the tailor shop together at noon," Cavanaugh said,
delightedly. "You can help me pick out mine and I'll see that Parker
fits you. You have got some shape to you, my boy, and you will cut a
shine up there."
Leaving his employer, John ascended to the roof again, this time through
the interior of the almost finished house, and out by a dormer window.
The old town stretched out beneath him. To the east the hills and
mountains rose majestically in their blue and green robe under the
mellow rays of the sun. A fresh breeze fanned John's face. A man near
him broke a slate by an unskilful stroke of the hammer and raised an
abashed glance to John.
"It is all right, Tim," he said. "I'm no good at slating myself. You
are doing pretty well for a new hand. Say, Sam's landed that court-house
contract."
The nailers and their assistants had heard. The hammers ceased their
clatter. Cavanaugh was seen standing in the middle of the road, looking
up at them. A man raised a cheer. Hats and hammers were waved and three
resounding cheers rang out. Cavanaugh took off his straw hat and stood
bowing, smiling, and waving.
"Lucky old duck!" Tim, who was a white man, said, "and he was afraid it
would fall through."
John's glance roved over the town, the only spot he had ever known.
Beyond the outskirts ran the creeks in which he had fished and bathed as
a ragged boy. Toward the south rose the graveyard a mile away. He could
see the dim roof of the ramshackle house in which he had lived since he
was five years of age. John looked at his watch.
"Get a move on you, boys," he said, in his old tone. "Say, that last
line is an eighth too low at this end. Lift it up. Take off the three
slates this way and nail 'em back. Damn it! Take 'em off, even if you
break 'em. I won't have a line like that in this job. It shows plain
from this window."