"When the boys seen they had no cards, o' course they said they wouldn't work with the scabs. But I said we'd stand 'em to-day, an' let you straighten it out to-morrow."
"We'll fix it now." The walking delegate, with deliberate steps, moved toward the two men, who were sitting astride an outside beam fitting in bolts.
He paused beside the Italian. "Clear out!" he ordered quietly. He did not take his hands from his pockets.
The Italian looked up, and without answer doggedly resumed twisting a nut.
Foley's eyes narrowed. His lips tightened upon his cigar. Suddenly his left hand gripped the head of a column and his right seized the shirt and coat collar of the Italian. He jerked the man outward, unseating him, though his legs clung about the beam, and held him over the street. The Italian let out a frightful yell, that the wind swept along under the clouds; and his wrench went flying from his hand. It struck close beside a mason on a scaffold seventeen stories below. The mason gave a jump, looked up and shook his fist.
"D'youse see the asphalt?" Foley demanded.
The man, whose down-hanging face was forced to see the pavement far below, with the little hats moving about over it, shrilled out his fear again.
"In about a minute youse'll be layin' there, as flat as a picture, if youse don't clear out!"
The man answered with a mixture of Italian, English, and yells; from which Foley gathered that he was willing to go, but preferred to gain the street by way of the ladders rather than by the direct route.
Foley jerked him back to his seat, and a pair of frantic arms gripped his legs. "Now chase yourself, youse scab! Or——" Foley knew how to swear.