“You can count your days with the Huckleberry numbered, Branyon,” he said. “I'm damned if I'll have you under me after this.”
“We'll see about that,” retorted Branyon, roughly. “Talk's cheap.”
“What's the old man ever done to you, you infernal loafer?”
“Shut up, Milt, and keep your shirt on!” said Stokes, in what he intended should be conciliatory tones. “We only want our rights.”
“We'll have 'em, too,” said Branyon, shaking his head ominously. “We ain't Dagoes or Pollacks. We're American mechanics, and we know our rights.”
“You're a sneak, Branyon. What's he ever done to you?”
“Oh, you go to hell!” ruffling up his shirt-sleeves.
“Well, sir,” said McClintock, his gray eyes flashing, “you needn't be so particular about the old man's record. You know as much about the inside of a prison as he does.”
“You're a damn liar!” Nevertheless McClintock spoke only the truth. At Branyon's last word he smashed his fist into the middle of the carpenter's sour visage with a heavy, sickening thud. No man called him a liar and got away with it.
“Gee!” gasped the closely attentive but critical Clarence. “What a soaker!” Branyon fell up against the side of the building near which they were standing. Otherwise he would have gone his length upon the ground, and the hands rushed in between the two men.