"No," said the miniature edition of Mike, "I don't mean him. He's not a liar anyhow. I can tell that. I mean fellers that talks and talks about what they would do and what they wouldn't do."
"Pay no attintion to thim fellers," said Mike, less talking to the newcomer in particular than generally, to those in the group who had ears to hear. And then to his new friend: "You didn't come down in the cars then, young feller?"
"I've come from the West," answered the young fellow.
"That's good enough," said Mike, in the accents of one instilling hope. "There's no need to answer what they don't ask. You look as if you came from beyant. Let yer hat spake for ye. Here he comes now."
Hands behind back, walking slow, came a man of forty or so, lean, grizzled, projecting himself with easy swinging steps toward the "Push," looking at them, head bent, from under his brows, with eyes so calculating and keen that the glance might have been considered malevolent were it not for a faint smile, or suggestion of a smile, about his close-pressed lips. There was a fresh agitation among the "Push," as of a pool when a stone is dropped therein. Mike stood a little more erect and drew his chin back. The aristocratic-looking Jack—in some queer way, despite his old, seedy, hand-me-down garments, he was almost dandyish—hands in pockets, jacket wrinkled up behind, body canted backwards, strolled out of the group a step or two with eyes on the man who advanced upon them, and strolled back again, as one who would draw attention to himself.
"Is this one of the bosses?" inquired the young man who had come by kind request if not exactly under Mike's wing at least to his side.
Mike gave a brief nod and closed one eye.
"Candlass," he said; and Candlass coming now level with them, Mike leant towards him and made a grimace which evidently Candlass understood. The others, at this, tried to crowd in between them. Candlass frowned grimly, opened a door in that latticed barricade between shed and wharf-side, and passed through. The "Push"—one might now have a hint of the derivation of its name—flocked after him, but he stood in the narrow entrance way and considered it over his shoulder as a man looks at a bunch of doubtful dogs that snap at his heels. Mike commented, in the background: "What are yez all crowding for? He'll tell ye when he wants us." Candlass closed the gate in the barricade, moved slowly away, but was still to be seen by those outside. He walked along the wharf looking up at the iron wall of the S.S. Glory that lay there, considered the high-sided cattle gangways that stretched up to the hull. Then he turned away and disappeared in the rear of the nearest shed, to reappear anon with a stout, fatherly man whose clothes had the appearance of rather being made to measure than reached off a hook. This man seemed to be trying to look grim, but when Candlass swung over to the barricade, whipped open the door, and wheeled back again as a sign to the "Push" to enter—and they did enter—any mere looker-on could have seen a quick droop of his eyelids, a momentary biting of his lip as of a man who is hurt in some way. There was a deal of the milk of human kindness about Mr. Smithers, wharf-manager of the St. Lawrence Shipping and Transport Co., and he never became used to the Hard Cases. He often wanted to know all about them, where they were born, how they lived, what they thought of it all. Some of the men, out of their breast-pockets, were tentatively withdrawing bundles of discharge papers lest John Candlass might care to see them. Candlass looked over the crowd again as it thronged into the St. Lawrence shed. He spoke now, for the first time, and his voice was amazingly quiet.
"I don't want you," he said to one man, with a quick lift of his eyebrows; and the man went out backwards, and swiftly, suggesting in his manner that he was ready either to put up a fight if pursued, or to turn tail and run the moment he passed through the barrier again. He backed away from the sultry and quiet Candlass much as a lion-tamer leaves a cage. Another man prepared to follow him, yet not as if whole-hearted in his retreat. Candlass had an eye on him.
"Er——" he began, in the tone of one who considers to himself. The retreating man heard this and paused like a weather-cock in a lull, looked at Candlass, and Candlass looked at him. They studied each other thus in a way that made the others, brief though the time of study might be, realise that there had been some prior understanding or misunderstanding, between the two.