f the Davidge ships had been destroyed. It was a
personal loss to nearly everybody, as it had been to Davidge, for
nearly everybody had put some of his soul and some of his sweat into
that slow and painful structure so instantly annulled. The mockery of
the wasted toil embittered every one. The wrath of the workers was
both loud and ferocious.

Jake Nuddle was one of the few who did not revile the German plague.
He was not in the least excited over the dead sailors. They did not
belong to his union. Besides, Jake did not love work or the things it
made. He claimed to love the workers and the money they made.

He was tactless enough to say to a furious orator:

"Ah, what's it to you? The more ships the Germans sink the more you
got to build and the more they'll have to pay you. If Davidge goes
broke, so much the better. The sooner we bust these capitalists the
sooner the workin'-man gets his rights."

The orator retorted: "This is war-times. We got to make ships to win
the war."

Jake laughed. "Whose war is it? The capitalists'. You're fightin' for
Morgan and Rockefeller to save their investments and to help 'em to
grind you into the dirt. England and France and America are all
land-grabbers. They're no better 'n Germany."

The workers wanted a scapegoat, and Jake unwittingly volunteered. They
welcomed him with a bloodthirsty roar. They called him vigorous
shipyard names and struck at him. He backed off. They followed. He
made a crucial mistake; he whirled and ran. They ran after him. Some
of them threw hammers and bolts. Some of these struck him as he fled.
Workmen ahead of him were roused by the noise and headed him off.

He darted through an opening in the side of the _Mamise_. The crowd
followed him, chased him out on an upper deck.

"Throw him overboard! Kill him!" they shouted.

He took refuge behind Sutton the riveter, whose gun had made such
noise that he had heard none of the clamor. Seeing Jake's white face
and the mark of a thrown monkey-wrench on his brow, Sutton shut off
the compressed air and confronted the pursuers. He was naked to the
waist, and he had no weapon, but he held them at bay while he
demanded:

"What's the big idea? What you playin'? Puss in a corner? How many of
yous guys does it take to lick this one gink?"

A burly patriot, who forgot that his name and his accent were
Teutonic, roared:

"Der sneagin' Sohn off a peach ain't sorry _die Clara_ is by dose tam
Chermans _gesunken_