One trifle, strange in its way, he remembered afterwards.
Holding the roll of paper in his hand that would make the mill his, he went, in his slow, grave way, down the long passage to the loom-rooms.
There was a crowd of porters and firemen there, as usual, and he thought one of them hastily passed him in the dark passage, hiding behind an engine.

As the shadow fell on him, his teeth chattered with a chilly shudder.

He smiled, thinking how superstitious people would say that some one trod on his grave just then, or that Death looked at him, and went on.

Afterwards he thought of it.

Going through the office, the fat old book-keeper, Huff, stopped him with a story he had been keeping for him all day.