Before he left the room, Dan said to McClintock:
“I hope you won't have any further trouble, Milt Better keep an eye on that fellow Branyon.”
McClintock laughed shortly, but made no answer, and for the rest of the morning Clarence dogged his steps in the hope that the quarrel would be continued under more favorable circumstances. In this he was disappointed. Branyon had been induced to go home for repairs, and had left the yards immediately after the trouble occurred, with a wet handkerchief held gingerly to a mashed and bloody nose. His fellows had not shown the sympathy he felt they should have shown under the circumstances. They told him he had had enough, and that it was well to stop with that.
Dan hurried up-town to the hotel. He found his father in his room, seated before an open window in his shirt-sleeves, and with his Bible in his lap. He glanced up from the book as his son pushed open the door.
“Well, Dannie?” he said, and his tones were mild, meditative, and inquiring.
“I was looking for you, father. They told me you'd come up-town.”
“So I did; as soon as I heard there was going to be trouble over my working in the shops I left.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
“Not a word, Dannie, but I knew what was coming, and quit work.”
“You shouldn't have done it, daddy,” said Dan, seating himself on the edge of the bed near the old man. “I can't let them say who shall work in the shops and who not. The whole business was trumped up out of revenge for the cut. They want to get even with me for that, you see. If I back down and yield this point, there is no telling what they'll ask next—probably that the wages be restored to the old figure.”