More capital would be necessary. He was revolving this undeniable fact when, through the lush June foliage, he saw an open carriage turn from the road and descend to the forge clearing. It held an erect, trimly whiskered form and a negro driver. The former was John Wooddrop. He gazed with surprise, that increased to a recognition, a memory, of Alexander Hulings.
“Jim Claypole?” he queried.
“Not here,” Hulings replied, even more laconically.
“Nonsense! I'm told he's been running Tubal Cain again. Say to him—and I've no time to dawdle—that John Wooddrop's here.”
“Well, Claypole's not,” the other repeated. “He's away. I'm running this forge—Alexander Hulings.”
Wooddrop's mouth drew into a straight hard line from precise whisker to whisker. “I have been absent,” he said finally. It was palpably an explanation, almost an excuse. Conrad Wishon appeared from within the forge shed. “Ah, Conrad!” John Wooddrop ejaculated pleasantly.
“Glad to find you at the hearth again. Come and see me in the morning.”
“I think I'll stay here,” the forgeman replied, “now Tubal Cain's working.”
“Then, in a week or so,” the Ironmaster answered imperturbably.
All Alexander Hulings' immaterial dislike of Wooddrop solidified into a concrete, vindictive enmity. He saw the beginning of a long, bitter, stirring struggle.