"Get your time!" he commanded, with crude brutality. "Go, get it at once. You're lucky to get off so easily. If Flint knew this, you'd land behind bars. But we want no scenes here. Get your money from Sanderson, and clear out. Your job ended the minute my hand touched that book in your pocket!"
Still Armstrong made no reply. Still he remained there, dazed and stricken, pallid as milk, a wild and terrible light in his blue eyes.
An ugly murmur rose. Two or three of his fellow-workmen had come drifting down the shop, toward the scene of altercation. Another joined them, and another. Not one of them but hated Herzog with a bitter animosity. And now perhaps, the time was come to pay a score or two.
But Armstrong, suddenly lifting his head, faced them all, his comrades. His mind, quick-acting, had realized that, now his possession of the book had been discovered, his chances of discovering anything more, at the works, had utterly vanished. Even though he should remain, he could do nothing there. If he were to act, it must be from the outside, now, following the trend of events, dogging each development, striving in hidden, devious ways—violent ways, perhaps—to pull down this horrible edifice of enslavement ere it should whelm and crush the world.
So, acting as quickly as he had thought, and now ignoring the man Herzog as though he had never existed, Armstrong faced his fellows.
"It's all right, boys," said he, quite slowly, his voice seeming to come from a distance, his tones forced and unnatural. "It's all right, every way. I'm caught with the goods. Don't any of you butt in. Don't mix with my trouble. For once I'm glad this is a scab shop, otherwise there might be a strike, here, and worse Hell to pay than there will be otherwise. I'm done. I'll get my time, and quit. But—remember one thing, you'll understand some day what this is all about.
"I'm glad to have worked with you fellows, the past few months. You're all right, every one of you. Good-bye, and remember—"
"Here, you men, get back to work!" cried Herzog, suddenly. "No hand-shaking here, and no speech-making. This man's a sneak-thief and he's fired, that's all there is to it. Now, get onto your job! The first man that puts up a complaint about it, can get through, too!"
For a moment they glowered at him, there in the white-lighted glare of the big shop. A fight, even then, was perilously near, but Armstrong averted it by turning away.
"I'm done." he repeated. He gathered up a few tools that belonged to him, personally, gave one look at his comrades, waved a hand at them, and then, followed by Herzog, strode off down the long aisle, toward the door.