Dave was silent for a while after reading the letter, and the gravity of his expression was enhanced by the extreme plainness of his features. His steady eyes were looking out through the open doorway at the mill beyond, as though it were some living creature to whom he was bound by ties of the deepest affection, and for whom he saw the foreshadowing of disaster. At last he turned.
"Damn the rain," he said impatiently. Then he added, "I'll see to it."
Dawson glanced quickly at his chief.
"Nothin' I ken do, boss?" he inquired casually.
A grim smile played over Dave's rugged features.
"Nothing, I guess," he said, "unless you can fix a nozzle on to heaven's water-main and turn it on to the strikers down east."
The other shook his head seriously.
"I ain't worth a cent in the plumbin' line, boss," he said.
Dawson left the office. The mill claimed him at all times. He never neglected his charge, and rarely allowed himself long absences beyond the range of its strident music. The pressure of work seemed to increase every day. He knew that the strain on his employer was enormous, and somehow he would have been glad if he could have shared this new responsibility.
Dave had just taken his slicker from the wall again when Dawson came back to the door.