An ungentle hand on his shoulder recalled him to time and place.
"For God's sake, what's the matter with you?" inquired Shade Buckheath's
voice harshly.
The old man gulped down his grief and made his communication in a few
hurried sentences.
"An' he'll do it," Pap concluded. "He's jest big enough fool for
anything. Ain't you heard of his scheme for having the hands make the
money in the mill?" (Thus he described a profit-sharing plan.) "Don't
you know he's given ten thousand dollars to start up some sort o' school
for the boys and gals to learn their trade in? A man like that'll do
anything. And if he marries Johnnie, Laurelly'll leave me sure."
"Leave you!" echoed Buckheath darkly. "She won't have to. If Gray
Stoddard marries Johnnie Consadine, you and me will just about roost in
the penitentiary for the rest of our days."
"The patent!" echoed Pap blankly. He turned fiercely on his fellow
conspirator. "Now see what ye done with yer foolishness," he exclaimed.
"Nothin' would do ye but to be offerin' the contraption for sale, and
tellin' each and every that hit'd been used in the Hardwick mill. Look
what a mess ye've made. I'm sorry I ever hitched up with ye. Boy o' yo'
age has got no sense."
"How was I to know they'd write to Stoddard?" growled Shade sulkily. "No
harm did if hit wasn't for him. We've got the patent all right, and
Johnnie cain't help herself.
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