"Give me a job," replied Sam abruptly. "Anything."
"Aren't you working for the French outfit?"
"For my keep. That will never get me anywhere. I might as well be in slavery."
"Sorry," said Beattie. "This place is run in a different way. 'The Service,' we call it. The young fellows are indentured by the head office and sent to school, so to speak. I can't hire anybody without authority. You should have applied outside."
Sam's lip curled a little. A lot of good it did telling him that now.
"You seem to have made a bad start all around," Beattie continued, meaning it kindly. "Running away with that girl, or whichever way it was. That is hardly a recommendation to an employer."
"It wasn't my fault!" growled Sam desperately.
"Come, now," said Beattie, smiling. "You're not going to put it off on the girl, are you?"
Sam bowed, and made his way out of the house. As he returned down the path he saw Miss Mackall leaning on the gatepost, gazing out toward the sinking sun over Beaver Bay. There was no way of avoiding her.
She started slightly as he came behind her, and turned the face of a surprised dreamer. Seeing who it was, she broke into a winning smile, albeit a little sad, too. All this pretty play was lost on Sam, because he wasn't looking at her.