The door opened. "Mr. Welse, Mr. Foster sent me to find out if he is
to go on filling signed warehouse orders?"
"Certainly, Mr. Smith. But tell him to scale them down by half. If a
man holds an order for a thousand pounds, give him five hundred."
He lighted a cigar and tilted back again in his chair.
"Captain McGregor wants to see you, sir."
"Send him in."
Captain McGregor strode in and remained standing before his employer.
The rough hand of the New World had been laid upon the Scotsman from
his boyhood; but sterling honesty was written in every line of his
bitter-seamed face, while a prognathous jaw proclaimed to the onlooker
that honesty was the best policy,--for the onlooker at any rate, should
he wish to do business with the owner of the jaw. This warning was
backed up by the nose, side-twisted and broken, and by a long scar
which ran up the forehead and disappeared in the gray-grizzled hair.
"We throw off the lines in an hour, sir; so I've come for the last
word."
"Good." Jacob Welse whirled his chair about. "Captain McGregor."
"Ay."
"I had other work cut out for you this winter; but I have changed my
mind and chosen you to go down with the Laura. Can you guess why?"
Captain McGregor swayed his weight from one leg to the other, and a
shrewd chuckle of a smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes.
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