John hung up his coat on the trunk of an apple-tree into which some nails had been driven, and took his trowel and other tools from a long wooden box with a sloping water-proof lid. He was about to ascend the scaffold when he saw Cavanaugh approaching and signaling to him to wait.
The contractor was a man of sixty years, whose beard and hair were quite gray. He was short and stocky, slow of movement, and gentle and genial in his manner. He had been a contractor for fifteen years, and had accumulated nothing, which his friends said was owing to his good nature in not insisting on his rights when it came to charges and settlements. Widows and frugal maiden ladies would have no one else to build for them, for Sam Cavanaugh was noted for his honesty and liberality, and he was never known to use faulty material.
"Mort' there! Get a move on you, boys!" John was eying his employer with impatience as he approached. "Fill all four boards and scrape the dry off clean!"
"Wait a minute, John!" Cavanaugh said, almost pleadingly. "I want to see you about the court-house bid. I want to mail it this morning."
"What! And hold up this whole gang?" John snorted, impatiently.
"Oh, let 'em wait—let 'em wait this time," Cavanaugh said. "Where are the papers?"
With a suppressed oath, John went to his coat and got them. "I haven't time to go over all that, Sam," he answered. "Wait till dinner-time."
"But I thought you was going to look it over at home," the contractor said, crestfallen, as he took the papers into his fat hands.
"Oh, I've looked them over, all right," John replied, "and that's the trouble—that's why it will take time to talk it over."
"You mean— I see." Cavanaugh pulled at his short, stiff beard nervously. "I'm too high, and you are afraid I'll lose the job."