Pete led the way. As they neared the main building a young man not older than Jim emerged from the door. His overalls were covered with grease and sawdust, a rule protruded from a narrow pocket; quite evidently he was of the carpentering clan.
“Dat Misser Nelson,” yelled Pete.
“Oh, Nelson!” called Jim.
The young man paused and turned a handsome, sharply cut face toward Jim. It was a dependable face, a likable face, a face, if the steel-blue eyes were to be believed, which belonged to a man whose action would follow swiftly his words, or even precede them. He did not reply to Jim’s hail, but stood waiting.
“Nelson,” said Jim, “my name is Ashe. My father has gone to California and I am in charge here.”
He paused briefly, and Nelson extended his hand with a suddenly brightening smile.
“Glad to know you, Mr. Ashe.”
“I’ve just fired Wattrous. Somebody’s got to take charge in his place. Can you take hold and make this mill run?”
“Yes.”
“Good! You’re boss. What are we paying you?”