Over the bridge he went, a tin pail in each hand; around the corner of the fence and on to the open gate. He was dashing through when he was hailed by a familiar voice.
There, sitting on a projecting plank of the nearest lumber-pile, was Halloran, a lantern in one hand, his watch in the other. Grouped around him were half a dozen panting men.
“All right, Crosman. False alarm. But you've made bully time——— Look out, there!”
This last was addressed to Du Bois, who came whirling around the gate-post and crashed full-tilt into Crosman. The assistant staggered, but recovered his balance; and the two sat down with the others. The men came bounding in until fully thirty were there—more by five or six than had been engaged. Halloran threw the light of his lantern on them.
“Time's up,” he said. “Where's Potin?” [pronounced Pot'n.]
No one answered, but after a moment the missing Canadian appeared.
“You're late,” said Halloran. “What's the matter?”
The man had to pause to breathe. “It took me a m-min-ute, Mister Halloran. I—I guess I didn't hear the first whistle.”
“We need better ears than yours, then. We can't use you after this. Runyon”—turning to one of the promptest of the outsiders—“I'll take you on in Potin's place. We don't pay men to sleep. That's all now, boys. You can go home.”
But now that they were aroused there was a tendency to wait and talk it over.