He closed the door, moved to the table, and seated himself at it near the centre of the room. Almost every eye had been fixed upon him as he entered, but no greetings were given, and the interest in the newcomer flagged the moment he opened a book and began to read.
“Who is he?” I ventured to ask my neighbour.
“Schrieber,” he replied, and then in a bored tone, as though remembering my greenness—“the fellow who’s been talkin’ at the lodgin’-houses for the last two weeks or so—at the ‘Crescent,’ and the ‘Owl,’ and the ‘American,’ and all of ’em.”
I desisted from asking the further questions that immediately suggested themselves, for my informant turned his back on me and rested his head on the table, as though to discourage further conversation.
“Here comes Bill Nevins,” announced the man opposite, but just whom he addressed could not be gathered from the faces around me. His remark, however, referred to an individual who entered with a “Howdy!” directed to the room in general.
“Cold morning, boys!” he exclaimed, as he walked towards the stove rubbing his hands together.
No one responded, but this did not seem to affect the speaker, who stood smiling cheerfully at the crowd, with his back to the red-hot stove. A healthy, well-fed, kindly-looking man, with vigour in his limbs and character in his genial face, he looked like some good-natured priest or head-groom.
“What’s the news, Bill?” called out a man with his chair tipped against the wall.
“Well, they strike to-morrow at noon, unless the companies concede something, but, as everybody knows they won’t, I might just as well say—they strike to-morrow at noon.”
The voice was clear and the tone cheery, though decisive. All the newspapers seemed to have been drained of their contents, for everyone was staring at the speaker—some with interest, others listlessly. But no answer or comment greeted the news.—The silence was solemn or absurd—one scarcely knew which.