As Conrad approached the nearest cook-house, Koppy emerged hastily on his way to the next. Conrad changed his intentions and strolled on after the underforeman. The two men met face to face as Koppy was coming out. The foreman, inches shorter, laid a hand on the Pole's shoulder. "I want you back here, Koppy." Without excitement, without apparent annoyance, he thrust the Pole ahead into the building.
A hundred and fifty evil countenances glared at them from about the long tables, some openly defiant, some only uncomfortable; all sullen and prepared to resist under the influence of what Koppy had just hurled at them in impassioned words.
"I'm afraid you've made it hard for yourself, Koppy," said the foreman.
"How long will it take them to finish?"
"Supper is their time," returned the underforeman stiffly. He was temporising; he scarcely knew how far it was wise to resist. "After supper?" He shrugged his shoulders in simulated indifference.
Conrad ran undisturbed eye over the tables, noting the pie before each diner.
"After supper is my time to-night," he corrected quietly. "In ten minutes they're wanted on the grade. There's a train to unload."
A rumble of protest cut him short. Koppy, the firm lines of the foreman's face close to his shoulder, hesitated.
"Why for train not here in time?" he demanded. "We work ten hours.
Train don't come. Why?"
Conrad lifted his shoulders and let them drop. "Ask the boss that—after. Now—the train has to be unloaded!"
The underforeman still hesitated. He had a curious respect for this quiet little fellow who never argued, never swore, never retreated from a stand once taken; and he was not quite certain how far he could trust his men in open conflict with authority. But they were waiting for his lead; his future with them was at stake.