e a fair
show. I've put up with your mean tricks and threats and insults ever
since you begun--and why? Because I wouldn't delay you and hurt the
work. It's the industries of to-day, the elevators and railroads, and
the work of strong men like these that's the bulwark of America's
greatness. But what do I get in return, Mister Peterson? I come up here
as a gentleman and talk to you. I treat you as a gentleman. I overlook
what you've showed yourself to be. And how do you return it? By talking
like the blackguard you are--you knock an innocent cigar----"

"Your time's up!" said Pete, drawing a step nearer. "Come to business,
or clear out. That's all I've got to say to you."

"All right, _Mister_ Peterson--_all_ right. I'll put up with your
insults. I can afford to forget myself when I look about me at the
heavier burdens these men have to bear, day and night. Look at
that--look at it, and then try to talk to me."

He pointed back toward the stairs where a gang of eight laborers were
carrying a heavy timber across the shadowy floor.

"Well, what about it?" said Pete, with half-controlled rage.

"What about it! But never mind. I'm a busy man myself. I've got no more
time to waste on the likes of you. Take a good look at that, and then
listen to me. That's the last stick of timber that goes across this
floor until you put a runway from the hoist to the end of the building.
And every stick that leaves the runway has got to go on a dolly. Mark my
words now--I'm talking plain. My men don't lift another pound of timber
on this house--everything goes on rollers. I've tried to be a patient
man, but you've run against the limit. You've broke the last back you'll
have a chance at." He put his hand to his mouth as if to shout at the
gang, but dropped it and faced around. "No, I won't stop them. I'll be
fair to the last." He pulled out his watch. "I'll give you one hour from
now. At ten o'clock, if your runway and the dollies ain't working, the
men go out. And the next time I see you, I won't be so easy."

He turned away, waved to the laborers, with an, "All right, boys; go
ahead," and walked grandly toward the stairway.

Max whistled.

"I'd like to know where Charlie is," said Peterson.

"He ain't far. I'll find him;" and Max hurried away.

Bannon was sitting in the office chair with his feet on the
draughting-table, figuring on the back of a blotter. The light from the
wall lamp was indistinct, and Bannon had to bend his