Just outside of the town he slowed the car down to a snail's pace.
"Some baby, isn't she?" he asked and at Robin's perplexed eyes he went off into rollicking laughter. "Why she eats the road! Dad said I couldn't get it out of her. I'll tell the world. Whew!"
Robin sat forward, suddenly alert.
"Are those the Mills?"
"Yep."
They were not so very unlike the Forsyth Mills—brick walls, dust, dirt, smoke, towering chimneys, and noise, noise. But beyond them and the river were rows of neat little white cottages, each with a yard, already green.
"Best mills in New England. But Dad's prouder of his model village—as Mother calls those cottages over there—than of his profit sheet. And look at the school—Dad wanted a school good enough for his own son and daughter, but Mother wouldn't let us go. I wish she had—I'll bet there's enough good batting material right in this town to whip every nine in this part of the country. There's Dad's library, too—"
But Robin did not heed the direction of his nod. She had suddenly seen something that made her heart leap into her throat; Adam Kraus walking into the office building carrying the square box with the leather handles, which she knew contained Dale's model. He was taking it to Mr. Granger.
A panic gripped Robin. She must do something to save that model for the Forsyth Mills—she did not know just what, but something—
"Stop, oh, stop. Couldn't I see your—father? I'd like to."