the work.  It’s the industries of today, 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 head forward to see the figures.  He did not look up when the door opened and Max came to the railing gate.

“Grady’s been up on the distributing floor,” said Max, breathlessly, for he had been running.

“What did he want?”

“He’s going to call the men off at ten o’clock if we don’t put in a runway and dollies on the distributing floor.”

Bannon looked at his watch.

“Is that all he wants?”

Max, in his excitement, did not catch the sarcasm in the question.

“That’s all he said, but it’s enough.  We can’t do it.”