"I say, go to the Manor!" cried a man who had not been at the Mills more than a month.
A strapping girl, with a coarse prettiness, laughed a mocking strident laugh that expressed the feelings of the crowd even more than the louder curses around her. The workers slowly dispersed, in little groups, talking in excited, angry tones. Dale Lynch detached himself from one of these groups and walked on alone, a frown darkening his face; nor did he shake off his absorption even after he sat down at the table to eat his mother's good Saturday meal—overcooked for standing.
"Has Adam been to Norris again?" asked big Danny.
Dale nodded. It was not necessary for either his father or mother to ask the outcome of the call. "Norris wouldn't listen to a word. I've been wondering if Adam is right—about the way to get this."
"He ought to know more'n you do," flared big Danny, who loved something upon which to vent his own rancor.
"I suppose." Dale admitted, eating with quick, absent-minded gulps. "I'd like to be the head of these Mills—I'd see both sides and make the other fellow see, too."
"Sure, it's wonderful you'd be," murmured Mrs. Lynch, caressingly.
"Well, I'm about as far from it as I am from being President of the United States. Adam has a better chance—if he ever gets his way. There's a leader."
Mrs. Lynch cut a generous portion of apple pie in a silence that said plainly she did not agree with her boy. Dale ate the pie, wiped his lips, pushed back the plate.
"The Rileys have got to move up the river."