He showed not a little curiosity regarding the biography of Brooke Hamilton. He asked a number of questions about the founder of Hamilton College and listened eagerly as Marjorie explained as lucidly as she could regarding the biography of the great man which she was to write.
When the partners had finished their ices Baretti escorted them, with proud lights in his black eyes, to his roadster, parked in front of the restaurant in shining newness. It was only a short run from the inn to the dormitory. The cutting sharpness of the east wind, however, made riding preferable to walking. Seated in the tonneau of the car Robin and Marjorie had hardly exchanged a dozen sentences when the car had reached the dormitory site and was slowing down for a stop.
“Look, Robin! What can the matter be?” Marjorie cried in an alarmed tone. Glancing out from the glassed door nearest to her she beheld a good-sized crowd of men collected in front of the dormitory building.
Before Robin could reply, Baretti brought the car to a stop and was out of it and at the door of the tonneau to assist them.
“What happen, I wonder?” he asked excitedly. “Mebbe is Mr. Graham or one his men hurt. You stay here. I go an’ see. You don’ go up there till I come tell you all is right. Mebbe is the fight.”
“We will wait for you here,” Marjorie cast concerned eyes toward the crowd of men in an endeavor to pick out Peter Graham in their midst.
As her gaze grew more searching she picked out the builder at the back of the crowd. He seemed to be the main object of attention. His hat was off and his thick white hair was being fluffed out on his head by the wind. He was waving an arm and wagging his head as though making a speech. Far from fighting, the gathering of dark-faced men was orderly. They were evidently listening to Peter Graham in an almost complete silence.
“Marjorie, is it—do you suppose Mr. Graham has been able to gather that crowd of men to work for him? I hardly dare believe it, but, oh, gracious, if it should be true—.” Robin clasped her hands.
“If it should be,” Marjorie repeated, hope flashing into her anxious face. “They are Italians—mostly.” She added the last word as she made the discovery that a sprinkling of the crowd were American. Simultaneous with it she made another discovery. The tall Italian at the edge of the group was Pedro Tomaso. She began to recognize others among that attentive throng who had formerly been Peter Graham’s men.
“They’re not new men, Robin!” she exclaimed. “They are the same ones who went over to Leslie Cairns’s lot.”