"We ship it to all parts of the world.It goes to South America, lots of it.It goes to Australia, and it goes to India, and it goes to China, and it goes to the Cape of Good Hope.
It'll stand any climate.Of course, we don't export these fancy brands much.They're for home use.But we're introducing them elsewhere.Here." Lapham pulled open a drawer, and showed Bartley a lot of labels in different languages--Spanish, French, German, and Italian.
"We expect to do a good business in all those countries.
We've got our agencies in Cadiz now, and in Paris, and in Hamburg, and in Leghorn.It's a thing that's bound to make its way.Yes, sir.Wherever a man has got a ship, or a bridge, or a lock, or a house, or a car, or a fence, or a pig-pen anywhere in God's universe to paint, that's the paint for him, and he's bound to find it out sooner or later.
You pass a ton of that paint dry through a blast-furnace, and you'll get a quarter of a ton of pig-iron.I believe in my paint.I believe it's a blessing to the world.
When folks come in, and kind of smell round, and ask me what I mix it with, I always say, 'Well, in the first place, I mix it with FAITH, and after that I grind it up with the best quality of boiled linseed oil that money will buy.'"Lapham took out his watch and looked at it, and Bartley perceived that his audience was drawing to a close.
"'F you ever want to run down and take a look at our works, pass you over the road,"--he called it RUD" and it sha'n't cost you a cent." "Well, may be I shall, sometime," said Bartley.
"Good afternoon, Colonel."
"Good afternoon.Or--hold on! My horse down there yet, William?" he called to the young man in the counting-room who had taken his letter at the beginning of the interview.
"Oh! All right!" he added, in response to something the young man said.
"Can't I set you down somewhere, Mr.Hubbard? I've got my horse at the door, and I can drop you on my way home.
I'm going to take Mis' Lapham to look at a house I'm driving piles for, down on the New Land.""Don't care if I do," said Bartley.
Lapham put on a straw hat, gathered up some papers lying on his desk, pulled down its rolling cover, turned the key in it, and gave the papers to an extremely handsome young woman at one of the desks in the outer office.
She was stylishly dressed, as Bartley saw, and her smooth, yellow hair was sculpturesquely waved over a low, white forehead."Here," said Lapham, with the same prompt gruff kindness that he had used in addressing the young man, "I want you should put these in shape, and give me a type-writer copy to-morrow.""What an uncommonly pretty girl!" said Bartley, as they descended the rough stairway and found their way out to the street, past the dangling rope of a block and tackle wandering up into the cavernous darkness overhead.
"She does her work," said Lapham shortly.
Bartley mounted to the left side of the open buggy standing at the curb-stone, and Lapham, gathering up the hitching-weight, slid it under the buggy-seat and mounted beside him.
"No chance to speed a horse here, of course," said Lapham, while the horse with a spirited gentleness picked her way, with a high, long action, over the pavement of the street.
The streets were all narrow, and most of them crooked, in that quarter of the town; but at the end of one the spars of a vessel pencilled themselves delicately against the cool blue of the afternoon sky.The air was full of a smell pleasantly compounded of oakum, of leather, and of oil.It was not the busy season, and they met only two or three trucks heavily straggling toward the wharf with their long string teams; but the cobble-stones of the pavement were worn with the dint of ponderous wheels, and discoloured with iron-rust from them;here and there, in wandering streaks over its surface, was the grey stain of the salt water with which the street had been sprinkled.
After an interval of some minutes, which both men spent in looking round the dash-board from opposite sides to watch the stride of the horse, Bartley said, with a light sigh, "I had a colt once down in Maine that stepped just like that mare.""Well!" said Lapham, sympathetically recognising the bond that this fact created between them."Well, now, I tell you what you do.You let me come for you 'most any afternoon, now, and take you out over the Milldam, and speed this mare a little.I'd like to show you what this mare can do.Yes, I would.""All right," answered Bartley; "I'll let you know my first day off.""Good," cried Lapham.
"Kentucky?" queried Bartley.
"No, sir.I don't ride behind anything but Vermont; never did.
Touch of Morgan, of course; but you can't have much Morgan in a horse if you want speed.Hambletonian mostly.
Where'd you say you wanted to get out?"
"I guess you may put me down at the Events Office, just round the corner here.I've got to write up this interview while it's fresh.""All right," said Lapham, impersonally assenting to Bartley's use of him as material.
He had not much to complain of in Bartley's treatment, unless it was the strain of extravagant compliment which it involved.But the flattery was mainly for the paint, whose virtues Lapham did not believe could be overstated, and himself and his history had been treated with as much respect as Bartley was capable of showing any one.
He made a very picturesque thing of the discovery of the paint-mine."Deep in the heart of the virgin forests of Vermont, far up toward the line of the Canadian snows, on a desolate mountain-side, where an autumnal storm had done its wild work, and the great trees, strewn hither and thither, bore witness to its violence, Nehemiah Lapham discovered, just forty years ago, the mineral which the alchemy of his son's enterprise and energy has transmuted into solid ingots of the most precious of metals.
