'Tis th' boss that's a-lookin'
'round to see who he'll be tyin' th' can to next."
The men laughed.
"There's one thing sure," said Bill Connley, who looked as though his
body were built of rawhide stretched over a framework of steel, "when
John Ward ties the can to a man, that man knows what 'tis for. When he
give Jim Billings his time last week, he says to him, says he, 'Jim,
I'm sorry for y'. Not because I'm fir'in' y',' says he, 'but because
y're such a loafer that y're no good to yerself nor to anybody
else--y're a disgrace to the Mill,' says he, 'and to every honest
working man in it.' An' Jim, he never give a word back--just hung his
head an' got out of sight like a dog with his tail between his legs
after a good swift kick."
"An' th' young boss was right at that," commented sturdy Soot Walters.
"Jim was a good man when he was new on the job, but since he got the
wrinkles out of his belly, he's been killin' more time than any three
men in the works."
"Pass me that pinch bar, Bill," called Dick Grant from the other side.
As he reached for the tool, his glance took in the figure that had
caught the eye of big Max. "Holy Mike!" he exclaimed, "'tis the old man
himself."
Every man in the group except Max turned his face toward Adam Ward, who
stood some distance away, and a very different tone marked the voice of
Bill Connley as he said, "Now what d'ye think brings that danged old
pirate here to look us over this day?"
"Who the devil cares?" growled Scot, as, with an air of sullen
indifference, they turned again to their work.
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