“Would you draw a gun on an unarmed, defenceless man?” Grady asked earnestly.

“No, I wouldn’t.  I don’t like that way of doing.”

“The men don’t like it either, Mr. Peterson.  No more than you do.  They like you.  They’ll do anything you ask them to.  They know that you can do anything that they can.  But, Mr. Peterson, I’ll be frank with you.  They don’t like the man who crowded you out.  That’s putting it mild.  I won’t say they hate him for an uncivil, hard-tongued, sneaking weasel of a spy—­”

“I never knew Bannon to do anything like that,” said Peterson, slowly.

“I did.  Didn’t he come sneaking up and hear what I was saying—­up on top of the elevator the other day?  I guess he won’t try that again.  I told him that when I was ready to talk to him, I’d come down to the office to do it.”

Grady was going almost too far; Pete would not stand very much more; already he was trying to get on his feet to put an end to the conversation.  “I ask your pardon, Mr. Peterson.  I forgot he was a friend of yours.  But the point is right here.  The men don’t like him.  They’ve been wanting to strike these three days, just because they don’t want to work for that ruffian.  I soothed them all I can, but they won’t hold in much longer.  Mark my words, there’ll be a strike on your hands before the week’s out unless you do something pretty soon.”

“What have they got to strike about?  Don’t we treat them all right?  What do they kick about?”

“A good many things, big and little.  But the real reason is the one I’ve been giving you—­Bannon.  Neither more nor less.”

“Do you mean they’d be all right if another man was in charge?”

Grady could not be sure from Peterson’s expression whether the ice were firm enough to step out boldly upon, or not.  He tested it cautiously.

“Mr. Peterson, I know you’re a good man.  I know you’re a generous man.  I know you wouldn’t want to crowd Bannon out of his shoes the way he crowded you out of yours; not even after the way he’s treated you.  But look here, Mr. Peterson.  Who’s your duty to?  The men up in Minneapolis who pay your salary, or the man who has come down here and is giving orders over your head?

“—­No, just let me finish, Mr. Peterson.  I know what you’re going to say.  But do your employers want to get the job done by New Year’s?  They do.  Do they pay you to help get it done?  They do.  Will it be done if that would-be murderer of a Bannon is allowed to stay here?  It will not, you can bet on that.  Then it’s your duty to get him out of here, and I’m going to help you do it.”

Grady was on his feet when he declaimed the last sentence.  He flung out his hand toward Pete.  “Shake on it!” he cried.

Peterson had also got to his feet, but more slowly.  He did not take the hand.  “I’m much obliged, Mr. Grady,” he said.  “It’s very kind in you.  If that’s so as you say, I suppose he’ll have to go.  And he’ll go all right without any shoving when he sees that it is so.  You go and tell just what you’ve told me to Charlie Bannon.  He’s boss on this job.”