"Here we are, lad," said the veteran engineer, as they started up the stairs of a building on Railroad Street. "Don't look very business-like, those pails of beer going into that hall yonder and that cloud of tobacco smoke. I wouldn't stir a foot, only it's quite regular according to union rules to call and report in a matter like this."
"What are you going to do, Mr. Griscom?" asked Ralph.
"Short and sweet, give my sentiments and leave these loafers to fight it out among themselves."
"Include mine," said Ralph. "I do not understand these strike complications and I know you do, so I shall follow your guidance."
When they entered the hall they found a noisy crowd, smoking, playing cards and lounging about. On a platform sat Jim Evans, looking profoundly important. He sat at a table with a heap of papers before him. Griscom approached him, Ralph by his side.
"Who's in charge here?" demanded the old engineer gruffly.
"I am," announced Evans, in a somewhat unsteady tone. "Head of the movement."
"That so?" muttered Griscom. "Movement can't amount to much, then. Now then, Jim Evans, just one word. We came here out of courtesy to the union. We are members in good
