w and then, but he did not like their
looks, and so he never spoke to them nor encouraged their addressing
him. A psychologist would have classified John as a sort of genius in
his way, for his whole thought and powers of observation pertained to
the kind of work in which he was engaged. Cavanaugh half jestingly
called him a "lightning calculator," and turned to him for advice on all
occasions.

Reaching the Square, John sprang from the car and, with the papers in
his hand and the pencil racked above his ear, he hurried into a
hardware-store and approached a clerk who was sweeping the floor.

"We need those nails and bolts this morning," he said, gruffly. "You
were to send them around yesterday."

"They are in the depot, but the agent hasn't sent 'em up yet," the clerk
answered. "We'll get them around to you by ten o'clock sharp."

"That won't do." John frowned. "We could have got them direct from the
wholesale house, and have had them long ago, but Sam would deal with
you. He is too good-natured and you fellers all impose on him."

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," the clerk proposed. "I'll send a
dray for them this minute and you'll have them on the ground in a
half-hour."

"All right," John said, coldly, and turned away.

The building on which he was at work was a brick residence in a
side-street near by which was being erected for a wealthy banker of
Ridgeville, and as John approached it he saw a group of negro laborers
seated on a pile of lumber at the side of the half-finished house.

"Here comes John now," one of them said, and it was significant that his
given name was used, for it was a fact that a white man in John's
position would, as a rule, be spoken of in a more formal manner, but to
whites and blacks alike he was simply "John" or "John Trott." This was
partly due, perhaps, to his youth, but there was no doubt that John's
lack of social standing had something to do with it. He had been nothing
but a dirty, neglected street urchin, a playmate of blacks and the
lowest whites, till Cavanaugh had put him to work and had discovered in
him a veritable dynamo of physical and mental energy.

"Good morning," several of the negroes said, cordially, but John barely
nodded. It was his way, and they thought nothing of it.

"Has Sam got here yet?" he inquired of a stalwart mortar-mixer called
Tobe.

"No, suh, boss, he 'ain't," said the negro. "I was gwine ter see 'im.
I'm out o' sand--not mo' 'n enough te