drinks, was more noisy, hilarious and quarrelsome than ever.
McQueen answered the questions they crowded at him as to the boy's condition soberly, and going over to Noonan took him by the arm and led him into a corner.
"The game ain't worth it," he said shortly. "I've had my lesson to-night and I'm through!"
"What for?" demanded Noonan aggressively. "We didn't have anything to do with it. We're not responsible, are we?"
"We are," said McQueen sturdily. "Morally responsible."
"Morally responsible!" Noonan mocked with a sneer. "Oh, mamma, listen to him! Streak of yellow, that's you, McQueen." Then fiercely: "You play the scab and I'll bash your head to jelly."
"You're drunk," retorted McQueen contemptuously.
"Drunk, eh? I'm not so drunk but that I know who's running this strike. It's me, and don't you foget it! And what I says goes, d'ye hear?"
"I'm asking you to call it off. Blood on our heads I won't stand for. Our grievances don't warrant what's likely to happen here if things go on. You owe it to the men who followed you into the strike, Noonan."
"Oh, I do, do I? Followed me into the strike, eh? How about the men that followed you?"
"That followed me?" repeated McQueen in amazement.
