ed on the woods, swung it open, and without
looking through whistled softly. Three men moved furtively across the
opening and waited.

Koppy stepped to the door and carelessly examined the sky, drew tobacco
and cigarette papers and rolled himself a smoke. Then, yawning lazily,
he reached back and pulled the door shut and strolled away out of sight
round the corner of the shack. With a nasty laugh to the three men
waiting there he led the way back through the window.

"Boss watching. Door closed--me not here."

One of the three men, a pair of golden hoops dangling from his ears,
lifted a listening hand. From below broke the loud music of the
orchestra.

"Boss think-a me there," he sneered. "Boss easy guy. Morani's
orchestra, he say. Morani here." He struck himself dramatically on
the chest.

"Not so easy maybe, boss ain't," Koppy shook a doubting head. "Big and
strong and--and thick here," touching his head. "Maybe--I don't know."

From a pouch of tobacco which Koppy had thrown on the table they were
rolling themselves cigarettes; it seemed to be a common stock of which
the Pole, in deference to his rank, had the guardianship. One of the
men struck a match thoughtfully.

"Get it out of your noodles that the boss don't know nothing. He gets
there mighty spry sometimes. He's had too much of things lately to
keep his eyes shut. We got to work pretty slick, I say."

Koppy straightened with a show of resentment.

"He never had the Workers before. We take him like that"--he closed
one big dirty fist with a relentless movement--"and we crush him, like
we crush all our bosses."

"All right, Koppy." The other puffed a ring of smoke. "I wish you're
right, if it makes you sleep better. I'm in on the crushing game.
Course the Workers make a difference. All the difference in the
world," he added hastily, catching Koppy's glowering glance. "But we
got to go smooth, I say, all the same-e. He's getting suspicious.
That whiffer he belted you to-day on the saloon-sign ought to about
hold you for a while. When your toes curled over that log I thought
we'd be measuring you for a coffin."

The face of the underforeman went livid; a flood of foul expletives
clogged his utterance.

The one who had not yet spoken broke in soothingly:

"Lefty just means he hit you hard. Why no somebody knife him?"

The four men asked each other the question with their eyes and,
receiving no answer, looked confused.

"W