He
had, however, a little residue of that discipline which, working in a
great industrial organization, begets qualms as to extreme courses.
He looked reflectively at the leaden pot and said in reply: "I'd never
believe in anything where that Ingolby is concerned till I had it in the
palm of my hand. He's as deep as a well, and when he's quietest it's good
to look out. He takes a lot of skinning, that badger."
"He's skinned this time all right," was Marchand's reply. "To-morrow'll
be the biggest day Manitou's had since the Indian lifted his wigwam and
the white man put down his store. Listen--hear them! They're coming!"
He raised a hand for silence, and a rumbling, ragged roar of voices could
be heard without.
"The crowd have gone the rounds," he continued. "They started at
Barbazon's and they're winding up at Barbazon's. They're drunk enough
to-night to want to do anything, and to-morrow when they've got sore
heads they'll do anything. They'll make that funeral look like a squeezed
orange; they'll show Lebanon and Master Ingolby that we're to be bosses
of our own show. The strike'll be on after the funeral, and after the
strike's begun there'll be--eh, bien sur!"
He paused sharply, as though he had gone too far.
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