“Well, men, what is it?” asked Oakley, sharply—so sharply that Clarence, who was at the water-cooler, started. He had never heard the manager use that tone before.
Stokes took a step forward and cleared his throat, as if to speak. Then he looked at his comrades, who looked back their encouragement at him.
“We want a word with you, Mr. Oakley,” said he.
“What have you to say?”
“Well, sir, we got a grievance,” began Stokes, weakly, but Branyon pushed him to one side hastily and took his place. He was a stockily built Irish-American, with plenty of nerve and a loose tongue. The men nudged each other. They knew Mike would have his say.
“It's just this, Mr. Oakley: There's a man in the carpenter-shop who's got to get out. We won't work with him no longer!”
“That's right,” muttered one or two of the men under their breath.
“Whom do you mean?” asked Oakley, and his tone was tense and strenuous, for he knew. There was an awkward silence. Branyon fingered his hat a trifle nervously. At last he said, doggedly:
“The man who's got to go is your father.”
“Why?” asked Oakley, sinking his voice. He guessed what was coming next, but the question seemed dragged from him. He had to ask it.