And so, partly from despair, and partly from that instinct which makes even the most sensitive of mortals wish to pour their secret troubles into another's ear, partly even from drunken recklessness, Edward Conway sat on his verandah this morning and poured his troubles into the designing ear of Jud Carpenter. The refrain of his woe was that luck—luck—remorseless luck was against him.
Luck, since the beginning of the world, has been the cry of him who gambles with destiny. Work is the watchword of the man who believes in himself.
This thing went because that man had been against him, and this went because of the faithlessness of another. His health—well, that was God's doing.
Jud was too shrewd to let him know that he thought whiskey had anything to do with it—and so, very cautiously did the employment agent proceed.
A child with sunny hair and bright eyes ran across the yard. She was followed by an old black mammy, whose anxiety for fear her charge might get her clothes soiled was plainly evident; from the parlor came the notes of an old piano, sadly out of tune, and Jud could hear the fine voice of another daughter singing a love ballad.
“You've got two mighty pyeart gyrls here,” at last he ventured.
“Of course, they are, suh,” snapped their father—“they are Conways.”
“Ever think of it, sah,” went on Jud, “that they could make you a livin' in the mill?”
Conway was silent. In truth, he had thought of that very thing. To-day, however, he was nerved and desperate, being more besotted than usual.
“Now, look aheah—it's this way,” went on Jud—“you're gettin' along in age and you need res'. You've been wuckin' too hard. I tell you, Majah, sah, you're dead game—no other man I know of would have stood up under the burdens you've had on yo' shoulders.”