Bannon started forward, when Max, who had been hurrying over to him, touched his arm.
"What's all this, Max?"
"I'm glad you've come. It's Grady, the walking delegate—that's him over there where those men are standing, the little fellow with his hat on one side—he's been here for ten minutes."
"Speak quick. What's the trouble?"
"First he wanted to know how much we were paying the men for night work, and I told him. Thought I might as well be civil to him. Then he said we'd got to take Briggs back, and I told him Briggs wasn't a union man, and he hadn't anything to say about it. He and Briggs seemed to know each other. Finally he came out here on the job and said we were working the men too hard—said we'd have to put ten men on the heavy sticks and eight on the others. I was going to do it, but Peterson came up and said he wouldn't do it, and Grady called the men off, just where they were. He wouldn't let 'em lift a finger. You see there's timber all over the tracks. Then Pete got mad, and said him and Donnelly could bring a twenty-foot stick over alone, and it was all rot about putting on more men. Here they come—just look at Pete's arms! He could lift a house."
Some of the men were laughing, others growling, but all had their eyes fixed on Peterson and Donnelly as they came across the tracks, slowly picking their way, and shifting the weight a little, at every few seconds, on their shoulders. Bannon was glancing swiftly about, taking in the situation. He would not imperil his discipline by reproving Peterson before the men, so he stood for a moment, thinking, until the task should be accomplished.
"It's Briggs that did the whole business," Max was saying. "He brought the delegate around—he was blowing about it among the men when I found him."
"Is he on the job now?" Bannon asked.
"No, and I don't think he'll be around again very soon. There were some loafers with him, and they took him away."
Peterson and Donnelly had disappeared through the fence, and a few of the crowd were following, to see them get the timber clear around the building to the pile.
"Have you sent out flagmen, Max?" Bannon asked.
"No, I didn't."
"Get at it quick—send a man each way with a lantern—put something red over them, their shirts if necessary."
"None of the men will dare do it while the delegate's here."
"Find some one—take one side yourself, if you have to."
Max hurried away for the lanterns, Bannon walked out to the group of men on the middle tracks.
"Where's Mr. Grady?" he said.
One of the men pointed, but the delegate gave no attention.
"You're Mr. Grady, are you?" said Bannon. "I'm Mr. Bannon, of MacBride & Company. What's the trouble here?"
The delegate was revelling in his authority: his manner was not what it was to be when he should know Bannon better. He waved his hand toward the wharf.
"You ought to know better than that," he said curtly.
"Than what?"
"Than what?—than running a job the way this is run."
"I think I can run this job," said Bannon, quietly. "You haven't told me what's the trouble yet."
"It's right here—you're trying to make money by putting on one man to do the work of two."
"How?"
Bannon's quiet manner exasperated the delegate.
"Use your eyes, man—you can't make eight men carry a twelve-by-fourteen stick."
"How many shall I put on?"
"Ten."
"All right."
"And you'd better put eight men on the other sticks."
The delegate looked up, nettled that Bannon should yield so easily.
"That's all right," said Bannon. "We aren't fighting the union. After this, if you've got anything to say, I wish you'd come to me with it before you call off the men. Is there anything else before I start up?"
Grady was chewing the stub of a cigar. He stood looking about with an ugly air, then he said:—
"You ain't starting up just yet."
"Why not?"
The delegate's reply was lost in the shout that suddenly went up from the western end of the line of laborers. Then came the sound of a locomotive bell and exhaust. Bannon started down the track, jumping the timbers as he ran, toward Vogel's lantern, that was bobbing along toward him. The train had stopped, but now it was puffing slowly forward, throwing a bright light along the rails.
"It's a C. & S. C. local," Max shouted. "Can't we clear up the right track?"
Bannon stopped and looked around. About half of the men had followed him, and were strung out in irregular groups between him and the timbers. Walking up between the groups came the delegate, with two men, chewing his cigar in silence as he walked. The train was creeping along, the fireman leaning far out of the cab window, closely scanning the track for signs of an obstruction. On the steps between the cars a few passengers were trying to get a view up the track; and others were running along beside the train.
"This has gone too far," Bannon muttered. He turned and shouted to the men: "Clear up that track. Quick, now!"
Some of the men started, but stopped, and all looked at the delegate. He stepped to one side and coolly looked over the train; then he raised his hand.
"Don't touch the timbers," he said. "It ain't a mail train."
His voice was not loud, but those near at hand passed the word along, and the long line of men stood motionless. By that time the train had stopped, and three of the crew had come forward. They saw the timbers on the track and hurried toward them, but the delegate called out:—
"Watch those sticks, boys! Don't let a man touch them!"
There was no hesitation when the delegate spoke in that tone. A score of men blocked the way of the train crew.
Bannon was angry. He stood looking at Grady with snapping eyes, and his hands closed into knotted fists. But Bannon knew the power of the unions, and he knew that a rash step now might destroy all hope of completing the elevator in time. He crossed over to the delegate.
"What do you want?" he said gruffly.
"Nothing from you."
"What do you want?" Bannon repeated, and there was something in his voice that caused the delegate to check a second retort.
"You'll kill these men if you work them like this. They've been on the job all day."
Bannon was beginning to see that Grady was more eager to make trouble than to uphold the cause of the men he was supposed to represent. In his experience with walking delegates he had not met this type before. He was proud of the fact that he had never had any serious trouble in dealing with his workmen or their representatives. Mr. MacBride was fond of saying that Bannon's tact in handling men was unequalled; but Bannon himself did not think of it in this way—to him, trouble with the laborers or the carpenters or the millwrights meant loss of time and loss of money, the two things he was putting in his time to avoid; and until now he had found the maligned walking delegate a fair man when he was fairly dealt with. So he said:—
"Well, what are you asking?"
"These gangs ought to be relieved every two hours."
"I'll do it. Now clear up those timbers."
The delegate turned with a scowl, and waved the men back to their work. In a moment the track was clear, and the train was moving slowly onward between the long lines of men.
Bannon started the gangs at work. When the timbers were again coming across from the wharf in six slowly moving streams that converged at the end of the elevator, he stood looking after the triangle of red lights on the last car of the train until they had grown small and close together in the distance. Then he went over to the wharf to see how much timber remained, and to tell Peterson to hurry the work; for he did not look for any further accommodation on the part of the C. & S. C. railroad, now that a train had been stopped. The steamer lay quietly at the dock, the long pile of cribbing on her deck shadowed by the high bow deckhouse from the lights on the spouting house. Her crew were bustling about, rigging the two hoisting engines, and making all ready for unloading when the order should be given.