The man ripped out an oath. “You don’t mean it,” he added hastily. “Why, I knew your grandpa,—why, let me see, it was all of twenty years ago, I’m thinking. Yes, that’s what it was. Do you think he will be coming here?”
“I’m afraid he won’t. He’s helping Marion Royce,” answered Jimmy. “There’s a lot to be done yet, and not enough hands at Marietta to work the mill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the stranger. “I’d of liked to see him, I tell ye.” His voice expressed more relief than regret, but Jimmy was too busy to notice it. “Then you’ll be James Claiborne’s son,” he added. “I’ll be durned.”
“Did you know my father?” asked Jimmy.
“Know your father?” repeated the stranger. “Do I know the back of my hand? Your father and me was together no longer ago than last spring on the Natchez trace.”
Jimmy wheeled round. “What!” he gasped. “My father—living?”
“If your father’s Jim Claiborne, son of old Unc. Amasa, he’s more alive than I came near being this night gone. What’s the matter with ye?”
Jimmy looked squarely into the light blue eyes. “Then why ain’t he come back?”
“Don’t ask me,” said the stranger. “Mebby he’s not wanted. I guess your Uncle Amasa would know where to look if he was sot on it.”
“Uncle Amasa is just pining to slip away and look for him,” said Jimmy.