“The lad’s right. Up with the hands!”
It was a crisis.
Peter trembled from head to foot.
A few hands were raised, then slowly a few more; more came. All over the field they shot into the air.
“And now choose your representatives,” called Peter quickly, dreading lest the tide of sentiment should turn.
“Carmachel! He doesn’t seem to fear losing his job,” piped a voice. “Put on Carmachel!”
“And Jackson; he said he would not strike anyway,” called somebody else.
“Bryant is a good fellow! Put Bryant on.”
“Put on some men from the other factories, too,” demanded a Pole aggressively.
A committee of twelve were chosen.