“Glad you are at home,” he began. “I was going to look you up the first thing.”
“Did you want to—see me about—I mean—”
“Yes, I've landed that thing at last—put it through.”
“You say you've—” Hoag's thoughts were widely scattered. “You say—”
“Why, the shingle contract, you remember.” Paul stared wonderingly. “You know you were afraid the Louisville parties would not sign up at my price, but they have. They take ten car-loads of pine stock at that figure and give us two years to fill the order. But have you”—Paul was studying the man's face—“have you changed your mind? Yesterday you thought—”
“Oh, it's all right—it's splendid!” Hoag's voice was lifeless; he looked away with the fixed stare of a somnambulist; he wiped his brow with his broad hand and dried it on his trousers. “You say they take five cars?”
“They take ten,” Paul repeated, his elation oozing from him like a vapor. “It will keep our force busy summer and winter and all the extra teams we can get. I've found a place for your idle saw-mill, too—over at the foot of the ridge. I'm sure, when you have time to look over my figures, that you will see plenty of profit for you and good wages for the hands. The men are all tickled. You don't look as if you were pleased exactly, Mr. Hoag, and if anything has happened to change your mind—”
“Oh, I am pleased—I am—I am!” Hoag asseverated. “You've done well—powerful well. In fact, very well. I'll glance at your figures some time soon, but not now—not now. I'll leave it all to you,” and Hoag retreated into the house and shut himself in his room.