"Oh, nothing; only, if I were you, I'd just look over his measures. You never heard of tapes that measured thirteen inches to the foot, did you? Nor of rods that made a hole three feet, when it was four?"
"What are you feeding us?" the foreman asked, in surprise.
"Pap. You're an infant. So's the gang of you."
"What do you mean?"
"Just this." Morrison looked wearied. "Thirteen inches to the foot means eight and one-third feet to the hundred. That is, it's likely the contractors are doing one hundred and eight feet and four inches, and getting pay for a hundred. No wonder they're kicking. That's $75 to the good for the company."
"I never thought of that," replied the foreman.
"I don't know that it's to be wondered at," answered Morrison. "After a man's pounded steel all day and got his head full of powder smoke, he's too tired and sick to think of anything. How are you coming on with the organisation?"
"Oh, all right. Most of the boys will come in all right. Some are standing off, though. Say they'd as soon be pinched by the company as bled by the union."
"Oh, well, don't trouble them too much. We'll attend to them later on. It's going to be a bad climate for scabs when we get our working clothes on."
"It means a strike to get them out."