That forenoon and again in the afternoon Latisan had gone to the big house and had submitted himself to unreasonable complaints when he reported on what was going forward at headwaters. He had ventured to expostulate when the master told him how the thing ought to be done.
“No two drive bosses operate the same, sir. And the whole situation is different this season.”
“It was your offer to be my right hand, young Latisan—and I’m drive boss still! You move as I order and command.”
Ward was wondering how long the Latisan temperament could be restrained. In the matter of Craig at the tavern the scion of old John had been afforded disquieting evidence that the temperament was not to be trusted too far.
He entered the mansion without knocking; it was the custom.
Flagg was reading aloud from a big Bible for which Rickety Dick had rigged props on the arm of the chair. Dick was sitting on a low stool, the sole auditor of the master’s declamation. The old servitor was peeling onions from a dish between his knees; therefore, his tears of the moment were of questionable nature.
The caller stood for a time outside the open door of the room, averse to tempting the hazard of Flagg’s temper by an interruption of what seemed to be absorbing all the attention of the old man.
“‘My flesh and my skin hath he made old; he hath broken my bones. He hath builded against me, and compassed me with gall and travail. He hath set me in dark places as they that be dead of old. He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out: he hath made my chain heavy.’”
Flagg halted and looked up from the page. “Lamentations—lamentations, Dick! The best of ’em have whined when the smash came. It’s human nature to let out a holler. Jeremiah did it. I’m in good company; it ain’t crying baby; it’s putting up a real man holler. It’s——”
Latisan stepped through the doorway.