"Can't you talk?" cried Brayley, angrily. "Are you deef an' dumb? I said, who might you be?"
"I heard you," replied Conniston, quietly. And to the man upon his left, "Will you kindly pass me the bread?"
The man grinned in rare enjoyment, and, since he kept his eyes upon Brayley's glowering face, it was hardly strange that he handed Conniston a plate of stewed prunes instead.
"Thank you," Conniston said to him, still ignoring Brayley. "But it was bread I said."
"An' I said something!" cut in Brayley, his voice crisp and incisive. "Did you get me?"
"I got you, friend." Conniston put out his hand for the bread and caught a gleam of sparkling amusement in Lonesome Pete's eyes from across the table. "And maybe after you tell me who you are I might answer you."
"Me!" thundered the big man, lurching one step nearer, his under jaw thrust still farther out. "Me! I'm Brayley, that's who I am! An' I'm the foreman of this here outfit."
"Thank you, Brayley." Conniston's anger was pounding in his temples, but he strove to keep it back. "I'm Conniston. I was told to report here by Mr. Crawford to go to work in the morning. I suppose I report to you?"
"Conniston are you, huh? All right, Conniston. Now who happened to tell you to slap yourself down in that there chair, huh?"
"Nobody," returned Conniston, calmly. "I didn't suppose that I was to stand up and eat."