"Somebody's fixin' to get hurt there in about two minutes."
Quin, to whom a scrap was always a pleasant diversion, ran forward and
craned his neck to see what was happening. Speeches were being made, hot
impassioned speeches, now in favor of the union, now against it, and
every moment the excitement increased. Quin listened with absorbed
attention, trying to get the straight of the matter.
Just now a sickly-looking man, with a piece of red flannel tied around
his throat, was standing on the steps, making a futile effort against the
noise to explain his return to work.
"I can't let 'em _starve_," he kept repeating in a hoarse, apologetic
voice. "When a man's got a sick wife and eight children, he ain't able to
do as he likes. I don't want to give in no more 'n you-all do. Neither
does Jim here, nor Tom Dawes. But what can we do?"
"Do like the rest of us!" shouted some one in the crowd, "Stick it out!
Learn 'em a lesson. They can't run their bloomin' old plant without us.
Pull him down off them steps, boys!"
"Naw, you don't!" cried another man, seizing a stick and jumping at the
steps. "We got a right to do as we like, same as you! Come on up, Tom
Dawes! We ain't going to let our families in for the Charity
Organization.
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