With this desire uppermost in his mind, Jordan wended his way to the lower part of the town, passed into Paradise Road, and paused a second in front of Lafe Grandoken’s shop to read the sign: 228
“Lafe Grandoken: Cobbler of Folks’ and Children’s Shoes and Boots.”
His lips curled at the crude printing, and he went on past the remaining shanties to the entrance to the marsh. At the path where Jinnie had so many times brought forth her load of wood, he paused again and glanced about. As far north as he could see, the marsh stretched out in misty greenness. The place seemed to be without a human being, until Jordan suddenly heard the crackling of branches, and there appeared before him a young man with deep-set, evil eyes, and large, pouting mouth. Upon his shoulders was a shortwood strap.
At the sight of Mr. Morse, the wood gatherer hesitated, made a sort of obeisance, and proceeded to move on. Jordan stopped him with a motion of his hand.
“In a hurry?” he asked good-naturedly.
“Got to sell my wood,” growled the man.
Morse appraised him with an analytical glance.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Maudlin Bates. What’s yours?”
“Jordan Morse.... Just wait a minute. I want to talk to you.”