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Updated: June 13, 2025
Just as he was about to cross the alley-way a man suddenly lurched out into the light. He was drunk, but not the maudlin, helpless intoxication that seeks and invites sociability. He was murderously drunk, strong, nervous, excited. He barred Bennington's way. "I thought it was you!" he said venomously. Bennington drew back and started to pass around the man. He did not recognize him.
He was not old; he was young; he was an exceptional man who had taken good care of himself. The threescore and ten heresy could not apply to him. Bennington's telegram irritated him with its lack of precision. Fifteen hundred dollars and expenses to send an expert to Arizona and in return this unbusinesslike report: "You will see Jack for yourself. He is coming."
What have I done?" There was a short silence. "Can't you think of anything you've done?" asked the voice, insinuatingly. Bennington's conscience-stricken memory stirred. It did not seem so ridiculous, under the direct charm of the fresh young voice that came down through the summer air from above, like a dove's note from a treetop, to apologize to Lawton's girl.
Bennington's voice was that of a man who wishes to know all sides of the question. "Well, he'll have to learn where they all started from." "Mr. Chittenden is an expert machinist." "Let him join the union, then, and there won't be any trouble here. I want justice. This shop is union, and no non-union man can work here. I want justice, that's all." "You'll get that all in good time, Mr. ah ?"
They toss them into the waste-basket ... and brood over them in silence. Now, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was always considering her duty; her duty to the church, to society, to charity, and, upon occasions, to her lord and master. "Bennington's men have gone out, the fools!" said Haldene from over the top of his paper. "Have they?" Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene nibbled the tip of her pen.
Shag did not reply; he was looking across the room at Sir George Bennington's son. He knew the name of the wealthy man whom Queen Victoria had honored, knew it well. His father, Trapper Larocque, had met Sir George in the old pioneer days of the railroad in the North-West.
Some day you may take it into your head to testify that I offered you a thousand to bring on the strike at Bennington's. That would put me in and let you out, because I can't prove that I gave the cash to you. Business is business." "Hell! Any one would think, to hear you talk, that I had threatened to betray." "Every man to his own skin," replied McQuade philosophically.
He ought to know that such a big hotel, furnished as extravagantly as the new house, would not pay in such a place as Rockhaven. He can never recover himself in the world." "But, father, even if the boys don't divide the gold, Bennington's customers will pay him enough to enable him to settle the interest," suggested Ethan, whose hopes were somewhat inflated by the reasoning of his father.
"Then out he goes," said Morrissy, recovering his truculence. "On what authority?" Bennington's voice was growing milder and milder. "On what authority?" he repeated. "On mine!" cried Morrissy. "You are mistaken. I am master here. Mr. Chittenden will remain on the pay-roll." "Then in ten minutes the men will walk out on my orders. You're making a big mistake, Mr. Bennington."
"All the boys are ready to crowd into any place I vacate around Cyrus Bennington's premises. You won't miss one from your company tonight. I may get desperate and kill off a few of them sometime to make you really miss me." He knew he was talking foolishly. He had felt himself superior to the other young men who obeyed every wish of Jo's.
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