“Get committee, go see super! Want check-weighman. Understand? Got to have check-weighman! No back down, no scare.”
“No—no scare!” Klowoski, who understood some English, explained rapidly to Zamierowski; and Zamierowski, whose head was still plastered where Jeff Cotton's revolver had hit it, nodded eagerly in assent. In spite of his bruises, he would stand by the others, and face the boss.
This suggested another question. “Who's going to do the talking to the boss?”
“You do that,” said Mrs. David, to Hal.
“But I'm the one that's to be paid. It's not for me to talk.”
“No one else can do it right,” declared the woman.
“Sure—got to be American feller!” said Mike.
But Hal insisted. If he did the talking, it would look as if the check-weighman had been the source of the movement, and was engaged in making a good paying job for himself.
There was discussion back and forth, until finally John Edstrom spoke up. “Put me on the committee.”
“You?” said Hal. “But you'll be thrown out! And what will your wife do?”