The others, seeing him take this attitude, were willing to let him talk for all. Superintendent Hawkins had rounded up the foremen, and now sent them to the checker's hut to deal with the men.
“Some of you are my men,” said Payson, looking the lot over. “You're discharged.”
“What's that?” roared the same indignant spokesman, a big, bull-necked, red-faced fellow.
“Discharged,” said Payson briefly. “All of you who belong to my gang. Checker, I'll call their names off to you.”
While Payson, and then the other foremen, were calling the names, the workmen stood by in sullen silence. When the last name had been entered the same bull-necked spokesman flared up again.
“Have we no rights?” he demanded. “Is there no such thing as the right of appeal in this camp, or are we under a lot of domineering, petty tyrants like you?”
“I'm a poor specimen of tyrant,”' laughed Payson good-naturedly. “All I'm doing, Bellas, is following orders. Any man who feels that he was justified in being away, and that he ought to be kept on the pay rolls here, may make his appeal to Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Hazelton or Mr. Reade.”
“I'll see Reade!” announced Bellas stiffly. “That youngster is doing all the dirty work here. I'll go to him straight.”
“I'll take you over to his office,” nodded Foreman Payson.
“I'm going, too,” announced another workman.