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Updated: June 14, 2025
But you can transfer the patents to me, and I can contract with Chiawassee Consolidated to make pipe for me." Caleb Gordon's frown matched that of his son. "That would certainly be givin' Colonel Duxbury a dose of his own medicine; but I don't like it, Tom. It looks as if we were taking advantage of him." "No.
Propped in his bed at Warwick Lodge, the bed he had not left since the night of violence, Duxbury Farley signed everything that was offered to him, and the obstacles to a settlement were vanquished, one by one. When it was all over, Tom began to draw checks on the small fortune realized from the sale of the patents.
The moment being auspicious, Tom sounded the master of the Deer Trace coal lands on the reorganization scheme, and found nothing but complaisance. Whatever rearrangement commended itself to Tom and his father, and to Colonel Duxbury Farley, would be acceptable to the Major.
The Farleys were returning; a legal notice of a called meeting of the Chiawassee Consolidated had been published; and it was evident that Colonel Duxbury meant to take hold with his hands. And Tom seemed to have forgotten that there was a battle to be fought.
Why Mr. Duxbury Farley spared the iron-master in the freezing-out process was an unsolved riddle to many. But there were reasons. For one, there was the lease of the coal lands, renewable year by year this was Caleb's own honest provision inserted in the contract for the Major's protection and renewable only by the Major's friend.
It had been rubbed into me by many snubs that a vast gulf interposed between the Freshman and upper-class man. I used to pass his door with reverence, for the story went that, even as a boy, he had written a history of Duxbury, Massachusetts.
Duxbury Farley's face that carried him swiftly back to the South Tredegar railway station and to that first antipathetic impression. But again the suave tongue quickly turned the page. "Don't let that trouble you for a moment, Mr. Gordon," was the reassuring rejoinder.
If Colonel Duxbury should arrive and resume the reins of management before Tom Gordon should reappear, all might yet be well. If not, the alternative impaired the bookkeeper's appetite, and there were hot nights in June when he slept badly. When Tom's advent preceded the earliest date named by Mr.
For three days a gentleman with shrewd eyes and a hard-bitted jaw, registering at the Marlboro as "A. Dracott, New York," had been shut up with Mr. Duxbury Farley in the most private of the company's offices in the Coosa Building, and on the fourth day Norman had made shift to find out this gentleman's business.
Without being in Gordon's confidence, or in that of American Aqueduct, the banker had been shrewdly putting two and two together and applying the result as a healing plaster to the stock he had taken as security for the final loan to Colonel Duxbury. "I thought, perhaps, you might wish to buy this stock, Mr. Gordon," he said, when Tom had stated his business.
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