letters and carried messages and
went to the city," is the laconic reply.

Floyd is so weary and discouraged that something in his face touches
Eugene.

"I wish you wanted to take my mare, Beauty, for part of this," he says,
hesitatingly. "She cost me a thousand dollars, but I won back three
hundred on the first race. She's gentle, too, and a saddle horse, that
is, for a man. You would like her, I know."

Floyd considers a moment. "Yes," he makes answer, and hands Eugene the
largest note, which balances it. "Make me out a bill of sale," he adds.

"You're a good fellow, Floyd, and I'm obliged."

For a moment Floyd Grandon feels like giving his younger brother some
good advice, then he realizes the utter hopelessness of it. Nothing
will sink into Eugene's mind, it is all surface. It may be that
Wilmarth's influence is not a good thing for a young man. How has his
father been so blinded?

"That man is a villain," Connery had said when they left the factory.
"It will be war between you, and you had better get him out if it is
possible."

Floyd sighs now, thinking of all the perplexities. What is Mr. St.
Vincent like? Will there be trouble in this direction as well?

He has deputed Connery to find him some efficient mechanician to go
over the factory and see what can be done. Surely Wilmarth cannot
oppose anything for their united interest, unless, indeed, he means to
ruin if he cannot rule. There _is_ a misgiving in Floyd's mind that he
is purposely allowing everything to depreciate with a view of getting
it cheaply into his own hands. Floyd has the capacity of being roused,
"put on his mettle," and now he resolves, distasteful as it is, to
fight it through.

CHAPTER VI.

There is a ripe season for everything: if you slip that, or anticipate
it, you dim the grace of the matter.--BISHOP HACKETT.

A rather curious lull falls in factory affairs. Mr. Wilmarth is gone
almost a fortnight. Floyd makes the acquaintance of the superintendent,
and finds him an intelligent man, but rather opposed to the new system
of machinery.

"We were making money before," he says. "I like to let well alone, but
Mr. Grandon, your father, was wonderfully taken with St. Vincent's
ideas. They're good enough, but no better than the old. We gain here,
and lose there. Of course if it was all as St. Vincent represents,
there would be a fortune in it,--carpet weaving would be revolutionized.
But I am afraid there is some mistake."