"Not according to the old man. He snoops around and tells me that this fellow's shirking, and to push him up; that that fellow's not timbering right, doesn't know his business, that I'd better fire him; that the gang driving on Four are soldiering, that I'd better contract it." "Contract it, eh?" "Yes." "Did you?" "I had to!" "How are the contractors making out?" "Kicking like steers; say they ain't making wages." "Who measures up?" "The old man, of course." "Uses his own tape and rod, eh?" "Yes. Why?" "Oh, nothing; only, if I were you, I'd just look over his measures. You never heard of tapes that measured thirteen inches to the foot, did you? Nor of rods that made a hole three feet, when it was four?" "What are you feeding us?" the foreman asked, in surprise. "Pap. You're an infant. So's the gang of you." "What do you mean?" "Just this." Morrison looked wearied. "Thirteen inches to the foot means eight and one-third feet to the hundred. That is, it's likely the contractors are doing one hundred and eight feet and four inches, and getting pay for a hundred. No wonder they're kicking. That's $75 to the good for the company." "I never thought of that," replied the foreman. "I don't know that it's to be wondered at," answered Morrison. "After a man's pounded steel all day and got his head full of powder smoke, he's too tired and sick to think of anything. How are you coming on with the organisation?" "Oh, all right. Most of the boys will come in all right. Some are standing off, though. Say they'd as soon be pinched by the company as bled by the union." "Oh, well, don't trouble them too much. We'll attend to them later on. It's going to be a bad climate for scabs when we get our working clothes on." "It means a strike to get them out." To this sentiment Luna acquiesced with an emphatic nod. "Strike!" ejaculated Morrison. "That's just what we will do, and pretty soon, too!" He was still smarting with the memory of Bennie's words. Pierre again took a hand. "Who mek ze troub', heh? Meestaire Firmstone. I bin tol' you he's smooth stuff, ver' smooth stuff. You mek ze strike. _P'quoi?_ Mek Meestaire Firmstone quit, eh? _Bien!_ You mek ze strike, you mek Meestaire Firmstone keep his job. _P'quoi?_ Ze company say Meestaire Firmstone one good man; he mek ze boy kick. _Bien!_ Meester Firmstone, he stay." "He'll stay, anyway," growled Morrison, "unless we can get him out." Pierre shook his head softly. "Ze strike mek him to stay." "What do you propose, then?" asked Morrison, impatiently. "Meestaire Jim at ze mine bin foreman. Meestaire Luna at ze mill bin foreman. Slick men! Ver' slick men! An' two slick men bin ask hol' Pierre, one hol' Frenchmans, how mek for Meestaire Firmstone ze troub'." Pierre shook his head deprecatingly. "Mek one suppose. Mek suppose ze mill all ze time broke down. Mek suppose ze mine raise hell. _Bien!_ Bimeby ze company say, 'Meestaire Firmstone bin no good.'"