“You see, Mr. Weir, your position is hopeless,” he remarked.
“Ask them if they definitely refuse.”
The lawyer put the question to the crowd. A chorus of shouts vehemently gave affirmation––a refusal immediate, disdainful, unanimous.
“We’ll now discuss the men’s terms,” the lawyer remarked politely and with an air of satisfaction.
“There’s nothing more to discuss. The matter is settled. They have refused; they need not seek work at the dam again. Start the car, Meyers.”
The roar of the machine drowned the indignant lawyer’s protest, the crowd hastened to give an opening and the conference was at an end.
“Drive to Vorse’s saloon; I want a look at Vorse,” said Weir. “I see the place a short way ahead.”
When they entered the long low adobe building an anemic-appearing Mexican standing at the far end of 20 the bar languidly started forward to serve them, but a bald-headed, hawk-nosed man seated at a desk behind the cigar-case laid aside his newspaper, arose and checked the other by a sidewise jerk of his head.
He received their orders for beer and lifted three dripping bottles from a tub of water at his feet. His eyes passed casually over Steele Weir’s face, glanced away, then came back for a swift unblinking scrutiny. The eyes his own met were as hard, stony and inscrutable as his own. Finally Vorse, the saloon-keeper, turned his gaze towards the window and extracting a quill tooth-pick from a vest pocket began thoughtfully to pick his teeth.
“You’re the new manager at the dam?” he asked presently, still considering the street through the window.