“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.