It was growing late. Floyd turned and made his way out of the yards across the bridge. The one-armed policeman at the wicket saluted him again as he passed. He went to the office of the superintendent, who looked up with a smile and said, "Well?"
"I'll be ready to start at the beginning of the week," Floyd answered.
"All right; report to the foreman of Number Two on Monday morning. You'll live out here, I suppose?"
"Yes; I wondered if you could suggest a boarding-house—"
"We keep a list," said the superintendent, and from one of the drawers in his desk he produced some typewritten pages. "Any of these places is all right."
"There's a house at the top of this street—the last house," Floyd said. "I liked its looks; is that here? I made a note of the number. Yes, this is it; I think I'll go there. Good-night, Mr. Gregg."
The superintendent rose and held out his hand.
"Good-night and good luck," he answered.
It was nearly six o'clock, and low as the sun was, the heat seemed not to have abated. The intermittent breeze of the day had ceased and a heavy sultriness prevailed; the western sky was brassy, and the smoke hung low over the river—cupped as it were between the hills. Down the sloping streets of the town men were going to their work, carrying their wicker lunch-baskets or tin pails—most of them in their undershirts, with their coats upon their arms. New Rome had now a more busy aspect than earlier in the afternoon, when Floyd had surveyed it from the hill. He strolled up one street and along another and another, but there was no need of much travel to acquaint oneself with New Rome. It lay spread out upon the hillside, open for any one to read.
It was a feudal town. The central block on the hillside was occupied by the house and grounds of the superintendent of the works. The house was very large, of yellow
