CHAPTER XIII

The creases between Jim Trafford’s eyes were deep as he rode home from the mill. The bridle hung loose on the horse’s neck. It was his custom when at the office to wait until the whistle blew and go out for lunch when his employees went. His grandfather and great-grandfather had followed the same program. It gave an opportunity to exchange friendly greetings with the workers. But to-day their descendant had found it impossible to remain indoors after Ben Cheever’s call. It was the first time his political opponent …