“Not a word.”
McClintock returned to the yards. It was the noon hour, and in the shade of one of the sheds he found a number of the hands at lunch, who lived too far from the shops to go home to dinner.
“Say, Milt,” said one of these, “have you tumbled to the notices?—ten per cent, all round. You'll be having to go down in your sock for coin.”
“It's there all right,” cheerfully.
“I knew when Cornish came down here there would be something drop shortly. I ain't never known it to fail. The old skinflint! I'll bet he ain't losing any money.”
“You bet he ain't, not he,” said a second, with a short laugh.
The first man, Branyon by name, bit carefully into the wedge-shaped piece of pie he was holding in his hand. “If I was as rich as Cornish I'm damned if I'd be such an infernal stiff! What the hell good is his money doing him, anyhow?”
“What does the boss say, Milt?”
“That wages will go back as soon as he can put them back.”
“Yes, they will! Like fun!” said Branyon, sarcastically.