“Yes, you see,” said Carpenter, “there's been ha'f a dozen of the brats died this summer an' fall—scarlet fever in the mill.”
Travis looked at him and smiled.
“An' I've got to git in some mo' right away,” he went on. “Oh, there's plenty of 'em in these hills.”
Travis smoked for a few minutes without speaking.
“Carpenter, had you ever thought of Helen Conway—I mean—of getting Conway's two daughters into the mill?” He made the correction with a feigned indifference, but the other quickly noticed it. In an instant Carpenter knew.
As a matter of fact the Whipper-in had not thought of it, but it was easy for him to say what he thought the other wished him to say.
“Wal, yes,” he replied; “that's jes' what I had been thinkin' of. They've got to come in—'ristocrats or no 'ristocrats! When it comes to a question of bread and meat, pedigree must go to the cellar.”
“To the attic, you mean,” said Travis—“where their old clothes are.”
Carpenter laughed: “That's it—you all'ers say the k'rect thing. 'N' as I was sayin'”—he went on—“it is a ground-hog case with 'em. The Major's drunk all the time. His farm an' home'll be sold soon. He's 'bleeged to put 'em in the mill—or the po'-house.”
He paused, thinking. Then, “But ain't that Helen about the pretties' thing you ever seed?” He chuckled. “You're sly—but I seen you givin' her that airin' behin' Lizette and Sadie B.—”