In the middle of the morning a man came up to him--“Bud” Adams, a
younger brother of the “J. P.,” and Jeff Cotton’s assistant. Bud was
stocky, red-faced, and reputed to be handy with his fists. So Hal rose
up warily when he saw him.
“Hey, you,” said Bud. “There’s a telegram at the office for you.”
“For me?”
“Your name’s Joe Smith, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what it says.”
Hal considered for a moment. There was no one to be telegraphing Joe
Smith. It was only a ruse to get him away.
“What’s in the telegram?” he asked.
“How do I know?” said Bud.
“Where is it from?”
“I dunno that.”
“Well,” said Hal, “you might bring it to me here.”
The other’s eyes flew open. This was not a revolt, it was a revolution!
“Who the hell’s messenger boy do you think I am?” he demanded.
“Don’t the company deliver telegrams?” countered Hal, politely. And Bud
stood struggling with his human impulses, while Hal watched him
cautiously. But apparently those who had sent the messenger had given
him precise instructions; for he controlled his wrath, and turned and
strode away.
Hal continued his vigil. He had his lunch with him; and was prepared to
eat alone--understanding the risk that a man would be running who showed
sympathy with him. He was surprised, therefore, when Johannson, the
giant Swede, came and sat down by his side. There also came a young
Mexican labourer, and a Greek miner. The revolution was spreading!
Hal felt sure the company would not let this go on. And sure enough,
towards the middle of the afternoon, the tipple-boss came out and
beckoned to him. “Come here, you!” And Hal went in.
The “weigh-room” was a fairly open place; but at one side was a door
into an office. “This way,” said the man.
But Hal stopped where he was.
“This is where the check-weighman belongs, Mr. Peters.”
“But I want to talk to you.”
“I can hear you, sir.” Hal was in sight of the men, and he knew that was
his only protection.
The tipple-boss went back into the office; and a minute later Hal saw
what had been intended. The door opened and Alec Stone came out.
He stood for a moment looking at his political henchman. Then he came
up. “Kid,” he said, in a low voice, “you’re overdoing this. I didn’t
intend you to go so far.”
“This is not what you intended, Mr. Stone,” answered Hal.
The pit-boss came closer yet. “What you looking for, kid? What you
expect to get out of this?”
Hal’s gaze was unwavering. “Experience,” he replied.
“You’re feeling smart, sonny. But you’d better stop and realise what
you’re up against. You ain’t going to get away with it, you know; get
that through your head--you ain’t going to get away with it. You’d
better come in and have a talk with me.”
There was a silence.
“Don’t you know how it’ll be, Smith? These little fires start up--but we
put ’em out. We know how to do it, we’ve got the machinery. It’ll all be
forgotten in a week or two, and then where’ll you be at? Can’t you see?”
As Hal still made no reply, the other’s voice dropped lower. “I
understand your position. Just give me a nod, and it’ll be all right.
You tell the men that you’ve watched the weights, and that they’re all
right. They’ll be satisfied, and you and me can fix it up later.”
“Mr. Stone,” said Hal, with intense gravity, “am I correct in the
impression that you are offering me a bribe?”
In a flash, the man’s self-control vanished. He thrust his huge fist
within an inch of Hal’s nose, and uttered a foul oath. But Hal did not
remove his nose from the danger-zone, and over the fist a pair of angry
brown eyes gazed at the pit-boss. “Mr. Stone, you had better realise
this situation. I am in dead earnest about this matter, and I don’t
think it will be safe for you to offer me violence.”
For a moment or two the man continued to glare at Hal; but it appeared
that he, like Bud Adams, had been given instructions. He turned abruptly
and strode back into the office.
Hal stood for a bit, until he had made sure of his composure. After
which he strolled over towards the scales. A difficulty had occurred to
him for the first time--that he did not know anything about the working
of coal-scales.
But he was given no time to learn. The tipple-boss reappeared. “Get out
of here, fellow!” said he.
“But you invited me in,” remarked Hal, mildly.
“Well, now I invite you out again.”
And so the protestant resumed his vigil at the mandarin’s palace-gates.