Bill was staggered. His simple mind failed utterly to comprehend that there might lie something behind Toppy’s apparently humble manner. Bill could see only one thing—the straw-boss was afraid of him.
“Yah —— know it, it’s all right!” he spluttered. “If it ain’t I’d —— soon make it all right.”
“Sure,” said Toppy, and without looking toward Bill he hurried into the quarry to see how the timbers were standing the strain. Bill stood puzzled. He had bluffed the straw-boss, sure enough; but still the thing wasn’t entirely satisfactory. The boss didn’t seem to care whether he worked or whether he loafed. Bill refused to be treated with such little consideration. He was of more importance than that.
“Hey, you!” he called as Toppy emerged from the pit. “I’m going to wheel rock down to the dam, that’s what I’m going tuh do. Going to wheel it; but yuh ain’t goin’ tuh make me go in there and dig it. See? I’m going to wheel rock.”
Now for the first time Toppy seemed to consider Bill.
“What makes you think you are?” he said quietly. He was looking at his watch, but Bill noticed that in spite of his sore ankle and cane the boss had managed to move near to him in uncannily swift fashion.
“You know you can’t work here now,” Toppy continued before Bill’s thick wits had framed an answer. “You won’t go into the quarry, so I can’t use you.”
Bill stared as if bereft of all of his faculties. The boss had slipped his watch back into his pocket. He had turned away.
“Can’t use me—can’t——Say! Who says I can’t work here?” roared Bill, shaking his fists. He was standing on the plank on which the wheelbarrows were rolled out of the cave, blocking the way of the men with the first loads of the day.
“Look out, Bill!” said Toppy softly, turning around. Instinctively Bill threw up his guard—threw it up to guard his jaw. Toppy’s left drove into his solar plexus so hard that Bill seemed to be moulded on to the fist, hung there until he dropped and rolled backward on the ground.