“Mr. Haddon,” said David Joslin quietly. “I did not double-cross you. I never did that in my life to anyone. You can’t call that to me.”
“Well, you didn’t go along,” rejoined Haddon testily. “I hate above all things the man that won’t go along with the bunch. It knocks to pieces any sort of business—big men go in front and plan things, and some little fellow comes along and knocks it all out I’ve got no patience with that sort of thing.”
“I’ve not a dollar in my pocket now, Mr. Haddon,” said he at last. “I didn’t have when I was in your country. I didn’t know the ways of your country—I was ignorant. But you don’t know the ways of my country, and you’re ignorant, or you’d not speak that way to me.”
“Don’t bring it all up again, Jim,” interposed Marcia Haddon quickly, and raised an arm of intervention, although Joslin had not moved. She tried to catch her husband’s eye, for she herself knew it was not far to trouble now. “Why, Mr. Joslin,” she went on, “we were just talking of you and wishing we had someone to take us in. We’re here just as we were two years ago; and, as you say, we’re ignorant. We don’t know this country any better now than we did then. You say you’re not ungrateful—won’t you let us be grateful too?”
“He knows what I want now,” interrupted her husband testily. “It’s time I knew something absolute and sure about my company’s investments in there. Well, are you going to take me in this time, young fellow?” he demanded brusquely of Joslin. “Let me tell you, I’m not going to turn back again. Are you going to try to square it now a little by helping the man that helped you?”
“If it’s any help to Mrs. Haddon to have me go in with you, I’ll be glad,” said Joslin directly. “She has been very good to me. I’m going back up river tomorrow as far as the Forks.
“But I’ve got to be going now,” he added, and so turned away to the street gate, so shaken with white anger that he scarce cared where he went.
Haddon, mumbling, rose and went into the house, leaving his wife alone. Not long later she heard a giggle, a protest, a chuckle of low laughter. James Haddon had chucked the comely Widow Dunham under the chin, had cast an arm across her somewhat ample shoulders.
“Who was that talkin’ outside?” queried the widow.