“He’s a nice enough young feller, but too young for a foreman. Might do for time-keeper and store boss and that sort of thing,” said McConnell, evidently turning the problem over in his mind. He did need just such a man. He would save his wages because he would be both careful and honest. And if he turned out well and made good—well—who knows? There were possibilities in just such a young fellow. His contracting business was developing beyond his personal supervision. He needed a partner. The father looked at his daughter. He was startled at the eager, almost breathless, anxiety in her face.
“Make him an offer,” suggested Ma. “You won’t be doing much for six weeks or so. But he can stay round here and keep things goin’. And I was just thinkin’”—she hesitated ever so little—“he might learn Molly on the piano some.” The careless indifference in Ma’s tone was slightly overdone, and she steadily refused to look at either of her listeners.
McConnell was busy lighting his pipe, which was giving him trouble. Through the smoke he stole a casual glance at Molly while he diligently puffed away. It gave him a queer twinge of pain and pity to see her face flame to the colour of her hair and then gradually grow white, as the girl looked steadily into the glowing face of the kitchen stove. For the white face was not that of his little girl but of a girl suddenly become a woman.
“Guess he won’t have much time for music lessons,” he said, covering his pain with a harsh laugh, “but I might do worse. He’s mighty keen after the dough. I might try him with sixty dollars and all found.”
“Now, Pa,” said his spouse sharply, “there ain’t no sense in talkin’ them figgers. He is keen on the money, but you know he’s got to keep them kids up at the school. He told Molly about them. And you ain’t goin’ to get him for no sixty dollars. Nor for twice that. My land! Tim, you’re not hiring a cowboy! You’re hiring a foreman and perhaps—well—offer him one hundred fifty an’ no less, or he won’t look at you.”
Twenty years’ experience of Ma’s shrewd estimation of values had taught McConnell the wisdom of pondering her advice, but in spite of this he could not restrain an exclamation of horror.
“One hundred and fifty! Holy mother o’ Moses, Ma! Have ye fled y’re sinses? One hundred and fifty!”
“Yes, one hundred and fifty. If you don’t make it two hundred. An’ I want to tell yez, McConnell,” said Ma, in her excitement reverting to the rich brogue of her childhood days, “that unless ye have the sinse to handle a big thing in a big way ye’ll make a fool av y’rsilf and niver git a hair av him. An’ so ye won’t.”
Pa gazed at his wife in a maze of troubled wonder. What was the meaning of this outburst? Not once in a year did Ma allow her emotions to reach full tide as now. He was greatly disturbed himself. Here was something beyond him which called for careful handling. Pa McConnell temporised.
“Tut! tut! thin, old woman. Wasn’t I just foolin’ wid ye? What’s the hurry skurry about anyway? If we want him we’ll get him, an’ that’s no lie. Molly darlin’, pass me a spill. Divil a draw can I get out of this pipe o’ mine, at all, at all.”