Burton laughed. “You’ve got a sweet nerve to ask for a job, and you responsible for a gang that won’t be able to do a day’s work among the lot of them between now and night. Did up McGonigle’s, eh? Well, I don’t know, I reckon in the long run that’ll be worth more to the company than the day’s work. All right, sport, you can go to work—until Pete and his crowd scare you out, which I predict won’t be long. And while you’re here, if you get itchy for trouble don’t look for it among the men, come to me.”
“Well, I’ll—” gasped Munford. “Why, I could twist you like—” Then he laughed in pure delight at Burton’s spunk “Oh, sure! Sure, I will.”
It took Munford no longer than a day to get the hang of the work. He was already more than a demigod in the eyes of Bridge Gang No. 3, and that counted for much. They were eager and ready to show him what they knew themselves, whereas the ignorance and rawness of any other newcomer would have been turned to good account in the shape of gibes and jests at his expense. In two days, from a natural adaptability coupled with his great strength, that was the strength of two men, Munford had fitted into place with the same nicety that one part of a well designed machine fits into another.
To the crews of the construction trains bringing up the bridge material he was pointed out with pride by his mates—though, indeed, that action was superfluous—as “the boy who did the trick at Pete’s.” And from these in turn Munford learned that down at Big Cloud, Pete and others of his ilk had sworn that, sooner or later, they would fix him for it. At this he only laughed and, doubling his great arm bared to the shoulders, intimated that there could be no greater pleasure in life for him than to have them try it. And that night sitting outside the camp after supper, McGuire, as spokesman, alluding to the threat, proposed that under Munford’s leadership they should make another raid on Big Cloud.
Burton, passing by, caught the gist of the conversation. “I want to see you a minute, Munford,” he called, shortly.
Munford got up and followed to the foreman’s little shanty that stood a few yards away from the main camp. Once inside, Burton shoved him into a chair and shook his fist under Munford’s nose.
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday morning,” he spluttered angrily, “that if you were looking for trouble to come to me and leave the gang alone? And here you’re at it again, what? Go down to Big Cloud and raise hell, eh? You great, big overgrown calf!” Munford blinked at the foreman, speechless. It was a long time since he had taken words like these from any man, much less a little spitfire like Burton.
“Trouble!” continued the irate Burton, hardly pausing for breath. “You live on it, don’t you? Eat it, eh? Well, you’ll get a fill of it before long that’ll give you the damnest indigestion you ever heard of. I promise you that! But you keep your hands off my crew! Now you listen to what I’m saying!”
“Aw, go hang!” said Munford, contemptuously. “I can’t help it, can I, if they want to go down to Big Cloud? If you’re so blamed anxious about them, it’s a wonder you don’t go around every night and tuck ‘em into their bunks!”
For a moment Burton looked as though he were going to jump into Munford and mix it then and there; but instead, with a short laugh, he turned and walked to the other side of the room, sat down on the edge of his bunk and pulled out his pipe. He cut some tobacco from his plug, rolled it between his palms, packed his pipe slowly and lighted it. It was five minutes before he broke the silence; Munford was beginning to feel uncomfortable.