Mr. Drummond stopped not to shake hands here. At Rutherford's, he was manager, Adam a mere labourer. Outside they were man to man; nevertheless, he brought a bit of his outside humanity to bear, for he paused to ask the striker if he had received good news from his wife.
Adam in few words gave him the substance of his news, and thanked him for the inquiry.
A little sigh, which escaped the striker as he pushed the letter back into his pocket, reached Mr. Drummond's ear. He was a man of quick sympathies, and as he glanced at Adam's horny, toil-stiffened hands, he guessed the reason. Probably he dreaded the labour which the writing of an answer would involve, more than a week of ordinary work. Even if he could write, practice must have rendered it easier for him to wield that huge hammer than to guide a pen.
"You have an hour for dinner," said the manager; "can you make half the time do, and come to my office for the remainder?"
"To be sure, sir. I have my dinner here, and less than half an hour will do to eat it in."
"Look in at half past twelve, then."
Adam had only time to assent, for it was needful to resume work, and the men were thronging into the various departments.
Richard Evans was employed in another part of the works, or probably Adam would have spoken to him about replying to his wife's letter, and bespoken the services of one of his sons. He went home to dinner, so there was no chance at that time.
Exactly at the half-hour, Adam entered Mr. Drummond's office, and found him alone.