“You had better go somewhere and wash the blood off your face first,” continued Ralph. “Here,” and he took out the little surgical case that all locomotive men carry with them. “Put a piece of that sticking plaster on that cut across your cheekbone. It was a pretty bad blow that fellow gave you.”
“Did you see him strike me?” inquired the man.
“Yes, and it appeared to be a brutal and uncalled for assault.”
“Say, that’s just what it was,” declared the man, getting excited. “I trained with that crowd and did their dirty work, and because I got a drop too much and blowed about the things we were going to do up to the factory, they dropped me.”
“What factory?” pressed Ralph.
“Glidden’s.”
“I was just going up there,” said Ralph. “It’s somewhere in this direction, isn’t it?”
“You’ll see the smokestack when you turn the next corner. Say,” demanded the fellow with a stare of interest at Ralph, “what you going there for? Looking for a job?”
“No,” replied Ralph, “I wanted to see it, that’s all. I am a friend of the man who owns it.”
“Oh, that’s it?” observed the man thoughtfully. “Well, he won’t own it tomorrow.”