“You may go, Moses,” said Enoch quietly.
“Yas, sir. Thank yer, Marser Crane,” and he was gone.
For a long while Enoch sat there, muttering to himself. Before him on the table lay his check payable to the order of Miss Ann Moulton. In case Ebner Ford failed her he had decided to come to the rescue.
CHAPTER XVIII
Whew! A breath of fresh air!
Joe Grimsby had gone to the woods—to the very heart of the Adirondack wilderness, an old stamping-ground of his—primitive enough in these days, long before the millionaire and his money had invaded and gilded the silent places. Even Atwater did not object to Joe’s going—he had worked hard, and needed a change. Their final set of competition drawings for the big building of the Lawyers’ Consolidated Trust Company had been handed in for decision; the remainder of their work, two cottages on Long Island, were in the hands of the builders, and the office was taking a well-earned rest. So Joe packed up his things, boarded the Montreal express one evening early in August, got off at daylight on the edge of Lake Champlain at Westport, and found his old friend and guide, Ed Munsey, waiting for him at the small station with a hired team and buckboard.
Ed’s quick blue eye caught right of Joe as he stepped off the sleeper.
“Wall! Wall!” grinned Ed, with a hearty handshake. “Knowed ye’d come. Freme Dubois’s boy brought me your letter—let’s see, Thursday, wa’n’t it? No—come to think of it, it was Friday—’bout noon; I’d been off straightening the trail over to the big south medders, fer the survey with Bill Williams. Gosh all whimey! We done some travellin’ in that thar swamp. Goll, sez I, I knowed ye’d write. Haow goes it, Joe?”
“Fine, Ed. Lord, but I’m glad to get here.”
“That yourn?” remarked Ed, noting an English sole-leather trunk by itself on the platform, well scarred and labelled, guaranteeing its travels to Venice, the Tyrol, and beyond.