“Well, what do you think? Doran is stoppin' at Kerr's Hotel, buyin' up cotton to run on next fall, an' this mornin' he come in my shop an' took a seat. You see, I used to know him an' his folks powerful well. He was in a Sunday-school class of mine, along with three other lads, away back in the seventies, when he was a tow-headed scrub of a boy that nobody ever thought would get rich, an' so I reckon he's purty free with me in confidential matters. Well, he set in to chattin' in a roundabout way, an' it wasn't long before I took notice that the talk always somehow got back to you an' your expert management of Hoag's affairs. Whar I fust began to smell a rat was when he said he'd been to every plant an' farm of Hoag's an' taken a look at 'em. Then what do you reckon he said? He said he had looked high an' low for a man to help 'im run the big factory, but hadn't found the right chap. Then he went on to say that from all he had seed an' heard you was the one he was lookin' for. He knowed me an' you was close friends, an' so he bantered me to find out if I thought you'd consider a change. I told 'im I didn't know; but, la me! if I didn't grease the wheels o' your cart no man in Georgia could. I said a lot, but he had heard more than I could tell 'im in a month o' Sundays. He said what he wanted was a feller who he knowed was honest to the core, an' he was sure he could sleep sound with a man at the helm that had come back here, like you did, as a bare matter of principle.”
“I am afraid you both are thinking entirely too well of me,” Paul faltered, “but I am glad you wanted to help me along.”
“Well,” Tye continued, “the upshot of the talk was that Doran didn't want no mix-up with Jim Hoag over tryin' to hire a man o' his, an' he asked me, as your friend, to sort o' sound you. He says he's willin' to pay a big price for your services, an' he thinks you will take an interest in the work. It is to be a model mill. They have built comfortable cottages for the workers, with a nice garden tacked onto each one, an' they don't intend to employ little children. Paul, it is a fine job—there is no better anywhar. I told 'im I didn't think you was bound to any written contract to Hoag, an' Doran said he was sure you wasn't, because Hoag wouldn't obligate hisse'f to nobody—even a good man.”
“No, I am not bound to him,” Paul said, “and I am just a little bit afraid he will not approve of something I am going to do. I have decided to help Jeff Warren and my mother.”
“I see.” Tye thrust his stubby fingers through the bristling mane of his mule, and bent down reflectively, “No, that will make 'im as mad as a wet hen. He hates Jeff with all the puny soul that's in him. Paul, take my advice. Doran will be at the hotel to-morrow an' wants to see you. Go have a talk with him.”
“It is plainly my duty,” Paul answered, with conviction. “There are certain expenses I have to meet, and I must sell my services for all they are worth.”
“Well, that's what I wanted to see you about.” Tye thrust his heels into the mule's flanks, shook the reins, clucked through his gashed teeth, and started homeward. “Good night; you know I wish you well.”
Paul entered the gate and started up the walk toward the house. As he drew near the steps he saw a shadowy form emerge from the darkened doorway, move across the veranda, softly descend to the ground, and noiselessly glide toward him. It was Ethel. Her head was enveloped in a light lace shawl held close at her chin, and her sweet face showed pale and rigid through the opening.
“Oh, Paul—” she began, but her timid voice trailed away into silence, and she stood staring at him, a fathomless anxiety in her eyes.
“Why, I thought you were in bed long ago,” he said, in surprise. “Has anything happened—gone wrong?”