It was Ludlow, hammering clamorously for silence on the shell of the big crane ladle, who acted as spokesman when the uproar was quelled.

“You’re all right, Tom Gordon—­you and your daddy.  But you’ve hit us plum’ ’twixt dinner and supper.  If you two was the company—­”

Tom stood up and interrupted.

“We are the company.  While Mr. Farley is away we’re the bosses; what we say, goes.”

“All right,” Ludlow went on.  “That’s a little better.  But we’ve got a kick or two comin’.  Is this half-pay goin’ to be in orders on the company’s store?”

“I said cash,” said Tom briefly.

“Good enough.  But I s’pose we’d have to spend it at the company’s store, jest the same, ’r get fired.”

“No!”—­emphatically.  “I’m not even sure that we should reopen the store.  We shall not reopen it unless you men want it.  If you do want it, we’ll make it strictly cooeperative, dividing the profits with every employee according to his purchases.”

“Well, by gol, that’s white, anyway,” commented one of the coke burners.  “Be a mighty col’ day in July when old man Farley’d talk as straight as that.”

“Ag’in,” said Ludlow, “what’s this half-pay to be figured on—­the reg’lar scale?”

“Of course.”

“And what security do we have that t’other half ’ll be paid, some time?”

“My father’s word, and mine.”

“And if old man Farley says no?”

“Mr. Farley is out of it for the present, and he has nothing to say about it.  You are making this deal with Gordon and Gordon.”

“Well, now, that’s a heap more like it.”  Ludlow turned to the miners.  “What d’ye say, boys?  Fish or cut bait?  Hands up!”

There was a good showing of hands among the white miners and the coke burners, but the negro foundry men did not vote.  Patty, the mulatto foreman who was Helgerson’s second, explained the reason.

“You ain’t said nuttin’ ’bout de foundry, Boss Tom.  W-w-w-w-we-all boys been wukkin’ short ti-ti-time, and m-m-m-makin’ pig ain’t gwine give we-all n-n-nuttin’ ter do.”  Patty had a painful impediment in his speech, and the strain of the public occasion doubled it.

“We are going to run the foundry, too, Patty, and on full time.  There will be work for all of you on the terms I have named.”

Caleb Gordon closed his eyes and put his face in his hands.  For weeks before the shut-down the foundry had been run on short time, because there was no market for its miscellaneous output.  Surely Tom must be losing his mind!

But the negro foundry men were taking his word for it, as the miners had.  “Pup-pup-put up yo’ hands, boys!” said Patty, and again the ayes had it.

Tom looked vastly relieved.

“Well, that was a short horse soon curried,” he said bruskly.  “The power goes on to-morrow morning, and we’ll blow in as soon as the furnaces are relined.  Ludlow, you come to the office at five o’clock and I’ll list the shifts with you.  Patty, you report to Mr. Helgerson, and you and the pattern-maker show up at half-past five.  I want to talk over some new work with you.  Anybody else got anything to say?  If not, we’ll adjourn.”