“No,” cried Oakley, hoarsely. “I'll put whom I please to work in the shops. Leave the room all of you!” The men retreated before his fury, their self-confidence rather dashed by it. One by one they backed sheepishly out of the door, Branyon being the last to leave. As he quitted the room he called to Dan: “We'll give you until to-morrow to think it over, but the old man's got to go.” McClintock promptly followed Branyon, and Clarence darted after him. He was in time to witness the uncorking of the master-mechanic's vials of wrath, and to hear the hot exchange of words which followed. “You can count your days with the Huckleberry numbered, Branyon,” he said. “I'm damned if I'll have you under me after this.” “We'll see about that,” retorted Branyon, roughly. “Talk's cheap.” “What's the old man ever done to you, you infernal loafer?” “Shut up, Milt, and keep your shirt on!” said Stokes, in what he intended should be conciliatory tones. “We only want our rights.” “We'll have 'em, too,” said Branyon, shaking his head ominously. “We ain't Dagoes or Pollacks. We're American mechanics, and we know our rights.” “You're a sneak, Branyon. What's he ever done to you?” “Oh, you go to hell!” ruffling up his shirt-sleeves. “Well, sir,” said McClintock, his gray eyes flashing, “you needn't be so particular about the old man's record. You know as much about the inside of a prison as he does.” “You're a damn liar!” Nevertheless McClintock spoke only the truth. At Branyon's last word he smashed his fist into the middle of the carpenter's sour visage with a heavy, sickening thud. No man called him a liar and got away with it. “Gee!” gasped the closely attentive but critical Clarence. “What a soaker!” Branyon fell up against the side of the building near which they were standing. Otherwise he would have gone his length upon the ground, and the hands rushed in between the two men. Stokes and Bentick dragged their friend away by main strength. The affair had gone far enough. They didn't want a fight. McClintock marched into the office, crossed to the water-cooler, and filled himself a tumbler; then he turned an unruffled front on Oakley. “I guess we'd better chuck those fellows--fire 'em out bodily, the impudent cusses! What do you say, Mr. Oakley?”