The older man attempted casual talk as they went along, but Jim’s answers were monosyllabic, even brusk. Moran studied the young man’s face out of the corner of his eye, wondering what was in the wind. He was puzzled, uneasy, and he ceased his conversation and speculated on possibilities.
Jim led him round to the rear of the mill. At the fire-room door he paused and called, “Kowterski!”
Presently a bulky figure emerged from the gloom that was beyond the doorway. The man was big, with a clumsy bigness, not so tall as Jim, but heavier by fifty pounds. He came forward slowly.
“Here,” said Jim. “Come here.”
Kowterski recognized Jim and ducked his head.
“Evenin’, boss,” he said, then looked into Jim’s face. Something he saw was disquieting, for he halted, took a step backward, started to raise his hands.
Putting the weight of his body into the blow, Jim struck him. Kowterski stumbled, went down. He lay still an instant where he had fallen, then wallowed to his knees and remained in that position, mumblingly ridding his mouth of blood and teeth.
“Git!” said Jim.
Kowterski rose, wavering, turned, and ran stumblingly away into the darkness.
Jim turned to Moran. “Good night,” he said, shortly.