“Well,” said Hal, “you might bring it to me here.”
The other's eyes flew open. This was not a revolt, it was a revolution! “Who the hell's messenger boy do you think I am?” he demanded.
“Don't the company deliver telegrams?” countered Hal, politely. And Bud stood struggling with his human impulses, while Hal watched him cautiously. But apparently those who had sent the messenger had given him precise instructions; for he controlled his wrath, and turned and strode away.
Hal continued his vigil. He had his lunch with him; and was prepared to eat alone—understanding the risk that a man would be running who showed sympathy with him. He was surprised, therefore, when Johannson, the giant Swede, came and sat down by his side. There also came a young Mexican labourer, and a Greek miner. The revolution was spreading!
Hal felt sure the company would not let this go on. And sure enough, towards the middle of the afternoon, the tipple-boss came out and beckoned to him. “Come here, you!” And Hal went in.
The “weigh-room” was a fairly open place; but at one side was a door into an office. “This way,” said the man.
But Hal stopped where he was.
“This is where the check-weighman belongs, Mr. Peters.”
“But I want to talk to you.”
“I can hear you, sir.” Hal was in sight of the men, and he knew that was his only protection.