McQueen in his grief didn’t get the rights of it. Only in a confused sort of a way he understood the roughs had winged the boy with a cowardly shot, meaning perhaps to do no more than shoot out his lamp as he swung by on the top of a car. And while his wife with tender hands busied herself in rendering such assistance to the surgeon as she could, McQueen sat in a chair and stared, dry-eyed and bitter of heart, at the white face on the bed.
Also McQueen was getting sense. Certainly, he had never intended to strike. Now, the shock of Carl’s hurt had sobered his judgment and he saw things as he should have seen them, saw them as he cursed himself for not having seen them before he had allowed his senseless egotism to carry him off his feet. As the thoughts came crowding through his brain, his cheeks burned dull red at his own shame. But through it all he blamed only himself, with never an inkling that he had been used as a cat’s-paw by the crafty Noonan—that was to come afterward.
McQueen waited only to wring a half-grudging assurance from the doctor that the boy would pull through, then he took his hat and left the house. It was getting on toward eleven o’clock when he walked into the hall across from the station where the boys had their headquarters, and had been in the habit of congregating each night ever since the strike began. Usually noisy in a good-natured, devil-may-care way, there was a subdued and serious quiet pervading the room as McQueen stepped in. The shooting in the yard was something they had not counted on and, like McQueen, it was acting on them as a tonic. All except Noonan who, evidently bolstered up with a few drinks, was more noisy, hilarious and quarrelsome than ever.
McQueen answered the questions they crowded at him as to the boy’s condition soberly, and going over to Noonan took him by the arm and led him into a corner.
“The game ain’t worth it,” he said shortly. “I’ve had my lesson to-night and I’m through!”
“What for?” demanded Noonan aggressively. “We didn’t have anything to do with it. We’re not responsible, are we?”
“We are,” said McQueen sturdily. “Morally responsible.”
“Morally responsible!” Noonan mocked with a sneer. “Oh, mamma, listen to him! Streak of yellow, that’s you, McQueen.” Then fiercely: “You play the scab and I’ll bash your head to jelly.”
“You’re drunk,” retorted McQueen contemptuously.
“Drunk, eh? I’m not so drunk but that I know who’s running this strike. It’s me, and don’t you forget it! And what I says goes, d’ye hear?”