“Sure, that followed you! You didn’t think I took any stock in your batty coal talk, did you? You must think I’m green! All I wanted was _you_--you bit fast and easy enough--the rest of the softies came along then like a pack of sheep. What d’ye think now about _me_ owing it all to the men, Mr. Morally Responsible, eh?” It took McQueen a minute to get the whole of it--the bitter whole of it. Then the blood rushed to his face in a crimson flood. He reached out and grasping Noonan by neck and shoulders shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. “You cur!” he cried hoarsely, and flung the other suddenly away against the wall. The men at the sound of the scuffle came running over. “He’s a scab! Kill him!” shrieked Noonan. McQueen turned to face the men. “If beating this strike’s a scab, I’m a scab,” he said quietly. “I’m out to beat it right now! I’ve been a fool and I’m ready to admit it. But I didn’t know until to-night that I’d been bait for a whining thing like that!” pointing at Noonan. “He says some of you men came in on the strike because I did. If that’s so, then get out of it because I do. Get out of it before there’s more on our hands than we’ll be able to answer for when we go into Division for the last time. That’s all I’ve got to say. I’m going over now to ask Carle-ton to put me on again, if it’s nothing better than pulling a way freight. And--and I hope you’ll come with me.” As the flood follows the fracture in the dam, so the breaking of the tension filled the room with pandemonium. Cheers, yells, hisses, curses, shouts--the Brotherhood was divided against itself. But ten minutes later, the majority of them were clustered behind McQueen in the super’s office. Carleton and his staff were sleeping at headquarters those days, and they gathered in a group around the green-shaded lamp on the dispatcher’s table to face the delegation. “Mr. Carleton,” McQueen began, “we----” That was all. He never got any further. From the platform outside came hoots and cat-calls, and above the chorus Noonan’s voice: “Soak the scab! Kill him! If he’s so fond of it, let him have it! _Now!_” The window pane was shivered with a crash, and McQueen, struck full in the head by a huge hunk of coal, sank without so much as a moan to the floor. They cured him of brain fever in the course of time all right, but they never cured him of coal. Up and down from one end of the division to the other, when he got around again, he talked coal harder than ever--it was his business. McQueen was doing the buying for the road.