CHAPTER VIII
MARCIA HADDON, AND THE MERRY WIFE OF WINDSOR
THE single hotel of Windsor was a raw and rambling structure, for the most part frequented by raftsmen and mill hands. Joslin knew the proprietor, commonly known as Old Man Bent. That worthy stood quizzically regarding the young man, as the latter accosted him, and explained his almost penniless plight.
“Ye’re plumb wore out, an’ I can see it,” said he. “Go in an’ go to bed, atter ye’ve had a squar’ meal, an’ don’t say nothin’ about pay ontel times is better fer ye. Hit’s many a dollar ye’ve paid to me, raftin’ times.”
Without further word, Joslin stepped into the dining room, and ate his first real meal for more than a week—ate ravenously, like any animal; and all that night he slept in a stupor of exhaustion.
When morning came once more he found his host. “I’ve got to git work,” said he. “I kain’t live here withouten I go to work right away. Ye know that.”
Old Man Bent looked at him with pursed lips. “I’ll tell ye what I’d do. Ye go down to Jones’ brick yard an’ see if he’ll give ye something to do fer a little while, ontel ye kin turn yoreself somehow.”
The Windsor brick yard was run by a man by the name of Jones, who himself was not above driving a canny bargain, as he noted the stalwart figure of this applicant.
“I could put ye to work carryin’ the molds from the mixer out to the dryin’ yard,” said he. “Sixty cents a day ain’t much, but I kin git plenty of men at that. They mostly work barefoot, anyways.” He glanced down at Joslin’s shoeless feet, worn with the hard going.
So this was David Joslin’s first encounter with the great outside world—for so even this village might be termed. Without murmur he went to work—twelve hours a day, with a back-breaking load each trip, carrying the wet clay of the molded bricks. The reflex of the wound in his head gave him a continuous headache. He still was weak. But he worked that day and the next. Then once more he went to his landlord.