The gentleness of the Manager had deceived the thick-witted Slav and he grew bold.
“I drunk when I sign,” he said loudly. “All these fellow drunk when they sign. I quit. They quit. You no can keep us here if we no want stay.”
“I can’t?” Still Reivers saw fit to play with his victim.
“No,” said the man. “And you no dare hit us again, no.”
“No?” purred Reivers softly. “No, certainly not; I wouldn’t hit you. You’re quite right, Rosky. I won’t hit you; no.”
He was standing at least seven feet from his man, his feet close together, his thumbs still hooked in his trousers pockets. Suddenly, and so swiftly that Rosky did not have time to move, Reivers took a step forward and shot out his right foot. His boot seemed barely to touch the shin-bone of Rosky’s right leg, but Toppy heard the bone snap as the Slav, with a shriek of pain and terror, fell face downward, prone in the trampled snow at Reivers’ feet.
And Reivers did not look at him. He was standing as before, as if nothing had happened, as if he had not moved. His eyes were upon the other men, who, appalled at their leader’s fate, huddled more closely against the log wall.
“Well, how about it?” demanded Reivers icily after a long silence. “Any more of you fellows think you want to quit?”
Half of the dozen cried out in terror:
“No, no! We no quit. Please, boss; we no quit.”