Marcia Haddon sat in silence for a time and looked at her husband, who, moody and irritated, was flicking at the end of his cigar.
“This is rather an extraordinary thing, Jim,” said she. “Do you suppose—is there any way we could help this man?”
“He doesn’t seem any too willing to help us,” replied Haddon grimly.
“I hain’t said that, Mister,” said Joslin evenly. “I’d do arything in the world I could fer ye people if it was right.”
Haddon gave a snort of laughter. “You people in here haven’t got a thing in the world—we bring in all the money you’ll ever see. You’ve got your resources to sell, and you aren’t willing to sell them. Well, what do we owe you?”
“I don’t know as ye owe us anything,” said David Joslin, the slow color rising to his face. “As fer me, I don’t allow to owe ary man arything very long. I reckon ye understand that, Ma’am.”
He turned now to the woman, who nodded. He knew that she did understand.
“Is there anybody else that you can get to take us in there?” demanded Haddon impatiently. “Damn it all, I’ve almost a notion to turn around and go back again! For half a cent I’d advise the boys to charge off the whole damn thing to profit and loss. I’m sore—that’s what I am.”
The low voice of Marcia Haddon began once more, and as before she addressed not her husband, but the young mountain man.
“You spoke about going in at some later time,” said she. “You interest me. My husband and I have no children. I’d like to do something—something for those children back there in the hills.”