“You want to leave, eh?” Storm interrupted shortly. “Well, you must please yourself, MacWhirter. You are getting a head gardener’s wages now.”
“Yes, Mr. Storm, and I’m not earning it, though I’m as able to as any man alive. If I keep on being just a caretaker, folks’ll think I’m not fit for anything else. I’m a farseeing man, and I’ve got to look out for the future.” The shrewd, kindly Scotch eyes narrowed and then swiftly darkened as he added in a lowered tone, “It isn’t only that, sir; it’s main lonesome out there now.”
“In Greenlea, with all the neighbors about?”
“Not Greenlea; I mean the place itself. There’s something about it since—since it has been closed up that fair gives me the creeps, sir! Something uncanny, like! I—I’d rather not stay on, sir.”
There was a note of superstitious awe in the man’s tones which awoke an unexpected answering chord in Storm, and his anger rose swiftly to combat it.
“You’re a fool, MacWhirter!” He exclaimed roughly. “There’s nothing wrong with the place. However, as you say, I don’t really need you there; the night watchman at the country club can look after things for me. I hope for your own sake that you have another position in view——?”
“They’ll take me on as assistant ground keeper at the club, sir.” MacWhirter’s tone was abashed. “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful——”
Storm waved that aside.
“It will be mean less wages.” He watched the man closely.
“Yes, sir. But I——” MacWhirter’s eyes fell. “I’d rather take it, sir, if you don’t mind.”