“Spide says they got it in for him. I can't just remember what he did say. It was something or other Griff Ryder knows about him. It's funny, but it's clean gone out of my head, Mr. Oakley.” Oakley started. What could Ryder know about his father? What could any one know? He was not left long in doubt. The next morning, shortly after he arrived at the office, he heard the heavy shuffling of many feet on the narrow platform outside his door, and a deputation from the carpenter-shop, led by Joe Stokes and Branyon, entered the room. For a moment or so the men stood in abashed silence about the door, and then moved over to his desk. Oakley pushed back his chair, and, as they approached, came slowly to his feet. There was a hint of anger in his eyes. The whole proceeding smacked of insolence. The men were in their shirt-sleeves and overalls, and had on their hats. Stokes put up his hand and took off his hat. The others accepted this as a signal, and one after another removed theirs. Then followed a momentary shuffling as they bunched closer. Several, who looked as if they would just as soon be somewhere else, breathed deep and hard. The office force--Kerr, Holt, and Miss Walton--suspended their various tasks and stood up so as not to miss anything that was said of done. “Well, men, what is it?” asked Oakley, sharply--so sharply that Clarence, who was at the water-cooler, started. He had never heard the manager use that tone before. Stokes took a step forward and cleared his throat, as if to speak. Then he looked at his comrades, who looked back their encouragement at him. “We want a word with you, Mr. Oakley,” said he. “What have you to say?” “Well, sir, we got a grievance,” began Stokes, weakly, but Branyon pushed him to one side hastily and took his place. He was a stockily built Irish-American, with plenty of nerve and a loose tongue. The men nudged each other. They knew Mike would have his say. “It's just this, Mr. Oakley: There's a man in the carpenter-shop who's got to get out. We won't work with him no longer!” “That's right,” muttered one or two of the men under their breath. “Whom do you mean?” asked Oakley, and his tone was tense and strenuous, for he knew. There was an awkward silence. Branyon fingered his hat a trifle nervously. At last he said, doggedly: “The man who's got to go is your father.” “Why?” asked Oakley, sinking his voice. He guessed what was coming next, but the question seemed dragged from him. He had to ask it. “We got nothing against you, Mr. Oakley, but we won't work in the same shop with a convicted criminal.” “That's right,” muttered the chorus of men again. Oakley's face flushed scarlet. Then every scrap of color left it. “Get out of here!” he ordered, hotly. “Don't we get our answer?” demanded Branyon. While the interview was in progress, McClintock had entered, and now stood at the opposite end of the room, an attentive listener.