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Updated: June 8, 2025
The thing was not a joke, and Englishman or nigger black, green, white, or gray the plot must be licked forthwith and in accordance with the rules. Crothers spat into his hands, while Joe Byng folded up his blouse and knelt on it.
It was just at that moment that Smith Crothers came down the path, crunching under his heavy boots the damp leaves and branches. Seeing Cynthia beneath the tree he paused and took off his hat.
Somebody else. What kind of a woman? Another Amy, or Fanny Carr, or Sally Crothers or Mrs. Grewe? What a funny, complicated town. On her return a year from now, Ethel had already decided to take a small house near Washington Square. How long would that experiment last! Doubtless in the years ahead she would try other homes, one after the other. "Why do we move so in New York!"
It had taken nearly seven years for Smith Crothers to collect his insurance, recover his health, and begin his business career again. He had left The Forge for two years, and since his return had gone slowly about his work of rebuilding and entering the arena. Whatever he thought or remembered of the night when his factory was burned, no one, but himself, knew.
Cynthia went to the little table by the window that served as her writing-desk and asked quietly what she should do. Crothers handed her a list of names and a package of envelopes and told her to address them.
I told him you had not taken Cynthia; that she was ill with headache." "Now!" Cynthia laughed lightly; "you see we need not have done that silly thing at Sudley's Gap." Marcia Lowe began to cry softly. "Oh! dear," she faltered, "but Smith Crothers knows and Sandy Morley, too. Oh! I have been so blind, so foolish, and you have been such mad children." "I am going to Sandy at once," Lans explained.
And here came Nell, also dressed, every garment so contrived that a single glance would tell the beholder that their owner was moving in the highest circles, and regardless of expense. Nell glanced over her shoulder now and then as she talked, and explained that Ted Crothers, the man with the bulldog face, was a terror, and it was hard to get away from him, because he had nothing to do all day.
The directness of the blows left Smith Crothers without defence; he was obliged to use his own crude weapons with the ever-growing conviction that they were worse than useless. Markham availed himself of no propitiation he rushed his opponent into the open at the first onslaught, and thereafter he attacked him fore and aft mercilessly.
"You better fotch the chile in 'bout nine," she suggested to Crothers as she went out; "she do look clean beat now. Quality don't last out at work like trash do; they certainly do tucker out sooner." Crothers bade the garrulous woman a pleasant good night, and then set himself busily to the task of mastering a pile of correspondence on his desk.
From that day Lansing Treadwell fell into the hands of Smith Crothers, and the plotting evolved so naturally, so apparently wisely, that no shock or sense of injustice aroused all that was good in the last of the Hertfords.
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