"Now," snapped the contractor, "get it off your chests. Where's Satan himself—Koppy, I mean?"
The most intelligent of the visitors, the most capable of estimating the underlying significance of tone and inflection, was Lefty Werner. The other two, maintaining their usual expression of phlegmatic and stubborn sullenness, left the delivery of their message to him, the glibbest talker. And plainly he had taken a dislike to it. A wild and fleeting wish that civilisation were nearer, wherein to hide himself, struggled with a goading appreciation of the comforts in Torrance's shack; for Werner often of late was oppressed with the futility of his present sphere as malcontent.
His aberrant reflections were interrupted by Torrance's rising impatience.
"Here, Werner, what is it? Speak up!"
Werner removed his hat and twirled it in his hand. Twice he cleared his throat before he could bring himself to speak.
"We've been sent—sent by the general body of workmen—"
"The bohunks, you mean," drawled Torrance with deliberate insult.
"Drop the gush, Lefty. What do you want? . . . And you won't get it."
Werner turned anxious eyes on his two stolid friends for moral support. He noted Morani's hand slide to the waistband of his trousers, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
"They appointed us to tell you—to tell you that the time has come"—he was stammering, his eyes fastened on the Italian's supple hand—"the time has come when we, the workers, have decided—have decided that—"
Torrance lounged round the corner of the table that separated them, but
Werner had eyes only for Morani's hidden hand.