Kowterski recognized Jim and ducked his head. “Evenin’, boss,” he said, then looked into Jim’s face. Something he saw was disquieting, for he halted, took a step backward, started to raise his hands. Putting the weight of his body into the blow, Jim struck him. Kowterski stumbled, went down. He lay still an instant where he had fallen, then wallowed to his knees and remained in that position, mumblingly ridding his mouth of blood and teeth. “Git!” said Jim. Kowterski rose, wavering, turned, and ran stumblingly away into the darkness. Jim turned to Moran. “Good night,” he said, shortly. “You had something to show me,” said Moran, thrown from his habitual poise. “That was it,” Jim said, and disappeared into the fire-room. CHAPTER XIII That night Jim patrolled the mill in the place of the watchman whose resignation he had accepted in front of the fire-room door. Through the long, dark hours he had time and quiet for reflection. His mind was stimulated by the occurrences of the day; he was aware of a clarity of vision, a straightness of thought, a satisfying concentration. His problem, in all its intricate difficulties, lay plain before him. He fancied he had read astutely his enemies’ plans; his own plans began to take form. Against Welliver and the Clothespin Club he would have to defend himself by business makeshifts and financial strategy. Them he did not underestimate nor did he exaggerate their menace. To defend himself against Moran his best course was to attack. It would now become his business to seek for a point of weakness, and there to deliver his first blow. It was common talk that Moran was reaching out ambitiously. His former holdings had been considerable; now the affairs which he seemed to control were of magnitude. He had traveled from the one to the other in a short space, a space so short that Jim felt sure it had not been sufficient to multiply his fortune. It forced itself upon Jim that Moran must have spread himself out thinly to cover so much ground. In that case there must be a point where he had spread himself with dangerous thinness. That area, Jim thought, he must find. There, he said to himself, he must strike. It was daylight when he left the mill and trudged wearily toward his bed at the widow’s. On his way he met John Beam, who regarded him with amazement. “Up kind of early, ain’t you?” asked Beam. “No, just a bit late to bed,” Jim said, with a grin of boyishness. “By the way, you’ll have to get a new watchman to take Kowterski’s place. I took it last night.” “What’s the matter with him?” “When he left,” said Jim, a trifle grimly, “I thought of advising him to go to the dentist’s.” He looked down at his bruised, abrased knuckles. Beam’s eyes followed his employer’s and the man grinned with sudden comprehension. “It was him, eh?” he asked. Jim nodded. “I won’t be down till afternoon.”