It was evident that the principal source of disturbance had been removed when Hummel had been compelled to leave the place; and yet there was no telling when a second Hummel might arise and leaven the entire group of men with discontent. Indeed, it was evident that many of them were not wholly at ease. In the midst of these unusually comfortable surroundings, they perhaps felt the same sense of disquiet which Jean Valjean felt in the Bishop’s bed; they were accustomed to a plank and could not sleep well upon springs and a mattress; but this was not the sort of disquiet which would lead to any serious results.
And yet Reddy, who kept a keener eye than ever upon events in Stanley’s absence, was not altogether satisfied. Indeed, Stanley’s absence of itself puzzled him. Orders had been given that the adventure of the abandoned train was to be kept quiet as long as possible, and no word concerning it had been breathed inside the freight-house. So, as the day wore on, Reddy grew more and more uneasy, especially when he noted that Allan was also away. He suspected that something was wrong somewhere, and it annoyed him that he should be shut up like this, away from all communication with his fellow creatures. Certainly, he did not consider the cook a fellow creature, and, in spite of himself, he could not help feeling a sort of pitying contempt for the strike-breakers. For Reddy was honest, was industrious, was temperate, and he felt that few of the strike-breakers were any of these things.
“An’ a fine figger you cut here, don’t you,” he went on, following this train of thought, “washin’ dishes an’ makin’ beds an’ waitin’ on table, like a saloon loafer, instead o’ doin’ an honest man’s work! I’m goin’ t’ throw up the job. I ain’t doin’ no good here. These fellers are as contented as a lot o’ hogs in the sunshine. I’ll jest tell Allan—”
“Say!” suddenly bawled a voice in his ear, “air ye goin’ t’ sleep on yer feet? Wake up, an’ git a move!” and a heavy hand struck him a hard blow on the shoulder.
Reddy turned with a start, and the dish he was wiping slipped from his hands to the floor. Of course it did not break, as it was made of tin, but it made a tremendous clatter.
“Stoopid!” yelled the cook, sticking his red face within a few inches of Reddy’s and waving his arms violently. “Awkward! I never saw nothin’ to beat you! You’re the limit!”
“Aw, shut up,” growled Reddy, not yielding an inch.
“An’ you calls yerself a dish-washer—”
“No, I don’t,” broke in Reddy. “An’ I never will now that I’ve seen you!”
“What!” shouted the cook, growing purple. “I’ll show you—” and his arm was drawn back to strike.