The night was still, dark, and stagnant, the water yet rushed on full and fast; its flow almost seemed a flood in the utter silence. Moore’s ear, however, caught another sound—very distant, but yet dissimilar—broken, and rugged; in short, a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stony road. He returned to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with which he walked down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open the gates. The big waggons were coming on; the dray-horses’ huge hoofs were heard splashing in the mud and water. Moore hailed them.
“Hey, Joe Scott! Is all right?”
Probably Joe Scott was yet at too great a distance to hear the inquiry; he did not answer it.
“Is all right, I say?” again asked Moore, when the elephant-like leader’s nose almost touched his.
Some one jumped out from the foremost waggon into the road; a voice cried aloud, “Ay, ay, divil, all’s raight! We’ve smashed ’em.”
And there was a run. The waggons stood still; they were now deserted.
“Joe Scott!” No Joe Scott answered. “Murgatroyd! Pighills! Sykes!” No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern, and looked into the vehicles; there was neither man nor machinery; they were empty and abandoned.
Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the last of his capital on the purchase of these frames and shears which to-night had been expected; speculations most important to his interests depended
