r las' twell--"

"Four loads will be dumped here in half an hour," John broke in. "Did
you patch that hose? Don't let the damn thing leak like it did
yesterday."

"It's all right, boss. She won't bust erg'in." The negro smiled.
Evidently he had not washed his face that day, for splotches of
whitewash with globules of dry mortar were on his black cheeks and the
backs of his hands.

The whistle at a shingle-factory blew. It was eight o'clock, the hour
for work to begin.

"Mort'!" John's command was directed to two mortar-carriers, who
promptly grasped their padded wooden hods and made for the mortar-bed
where Tobe was already shoving and pulling the grayish mass to and fro
with a hoe.

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 hig