there were shouts of disapproval, and mutterings of anger. Some one, by way of excuse for him, declared that Steve had broken down, and lost his nerve. No one had ever before known him to acknowledge defeat. Persistence had been the secret of his success. But, doubtless, this time he was right.
Bricky Hoover sat in the front row of seats, his body bent forward, his head resting in his hands, his eyes fixed steadfastly on a certain spot on the floor in front of him. No one had called on him for a speech, for no one had conceived that he was capable of making one. He was a worker, not an orator. But the shouting that followed Lamar's address had not yet died down when he rose to his feet and began to mount the steps that led to the platform. He bobbed his head to the chairman, and then turned and faced his audience. When his fellow-workers saw him standing there, rubbing his hand awkwardly across his unkempt shock of red hair, they burst into laughter. Apparently the strain under which they were laboring was to be eased by a bit of comedy. He stood there with his long legs wide apart, his shoulders hunched up, his unsymmetrical face drawn into a queer, forced smile. Some one said that he had been drinking, and had best sit down. But others hailed him familiarly and shouted for a speech. He was there to speak, and he began.
There were few who heard him at first; his voice was low, and he seemed to have difficulty in articulating his words. But cries of: "Louder!" "Louder!" brought more vigor to his throat and tongue, and soon the only ones who failed to hear him were those who would not do so.
"I've been the goat," he said, "for both sides in this thing. I'm through bein' the goat. I'm goin' to fight, now, on me own account. The Company picked me for the first victim because I'd been the loudest gittin' yer rights for ye. More was to follow. If ye hadn't struck they'd 'a' been a hunderd o' ye laid off
