It was toward the latter part of the afternoon that a tall, angular man, in a black overcoat and a derby hat, stepped from the ladder on to the loose planking, glanced about and walked over to the gang of men about the south crane.
"Hello, Buck," they called out on sight of him.
"Hello, boys," he answered carelessly.
He stood, with hands in the pockets of his overcoat, smoking his cigar, watching the crane accurately swing a beam to its place, and a couple of men run along it and bolt it at each end to the columns. He had a face to hold one's look—lean and long: gray, quick eyes, set close together; high cheek bones, with the dull polish of bronze; a thin nose, with a vulturous droop; a wide tight mouth; a great bone of a chin;—a daring, incisive, masterful face.
When the beam had been bolted to its place, Barry, with a reluctance he tried to conceal, walked over to Foley.
"How's things?" asked the new-comer, rolling his cigar into the corner of his mouth and slipping his words out between barely parted lips.
Barry was the steward on the job,—the union's representative. "Two snakes come on the job this mornin'," he reported. "Them two over there,—that Squarehead an' that Guinea. I was goin' to write you a postal card about 'em to-night."
"Who put 'em to work?"
"They said Duffy, Driscoll's superintendent."
Foley grunted, and his eyes fastened thoughtfully on the two non-union men.