Vickery, overcome by mirth, turned to Bro, as if for relief; Bro was at least a man.
But Bro returned his gaze mildly, comprehending nothing.
"Going over to the mill?" said Vickery. "I'll go with you, and have a look about."
They went off together, and Vickery examined the mill from top to bottom; he measured the logs, inspected the engine, chaffed the negroes, climbed out on the roof, put his head into Bro's cell-like bedroom, and came at last to the locked door.
"What have we here?" he asked.
"Only a little workshop of mine, which I keep locked," replied Bro.
"So I see. But what's inside?"
"Nothing of much consequence—as yet," replied the other, unable to resist adding the adverb.
"You must let me in," said Vickery, shaking the door. "I never could abide a secret. Come, Bro; I won't tell. Let me in, or I shall climb up at night and break in," he added gayly.
Bro stood looking at him in silence. Eleven years had he labored there alone, too humble to speak voluntarily of his labors; too insignificant, apparently, for questions from others. Although for the most part happy over his work, there were times when he longed for a friendly ear to talk to, for other eyes to criticise, the sympathy of other minds, the help of other hands. At these moments he felt drearily lonely over his valve and register; they even seemed to mock him. He was not imaginative, yet occasionally they acted as if moved by human motives, and, worse still, became fairly devilish in their crooked perverseness. Nobody had ever asked before to go into that room. Should he? Should he not? Should he? Then he did.