rogant and harsh with those
beneath his authority. "I repeat the word. Drop that fist, Armstrong, if
you know what's good for you. I warn you. Any disturbance, here,
and--well, you know what we can do!"

The electrician paled, slightly. But it was not through cowardice. Rage,
passion unspeakable, a sudden and animal hate of this lick-spittle and
supine toady shook him to the heart's core. Yet he managed to control
himself, not through any personal apprehension, but because of the great
work he knew still lay before him. At all hazards, come what might, he
must stay on, there, at the Oakwood Heights plant. Nothing, now, must
come between him and that one supreme labor.

Thus he controlled himself, with an effort so tremendous that it
wrenched his very soul. This trouble, whatever it might be, must not be
noised about. Already, up and down the shop, workers were peering
curiously at him. He must be calm; must pass the insult, smooth the
situation and remain employed there.

"I--I beg pardon," he managed to articulate, with pale lips that
trembled. He wiped the beaded sweat from his broad forehead. "Excuse me,
Mr. Herzog. I--you startled me. What's the trouble? Any complaint to
make? If so, I'm here to listen."

Herzog's teeth showed in a rat-like grin of malice.

"Yes, you'll listen, all right enough," he sneered. "I've named you, and
that goes! You're a thief, Armstrong, and this proves it! Look!"

From behind his back, where he had been holding it, he produced the
little morocco-covered book. Right in Armstrong's face he shook it, with
an oath.

"Steal, will you?" he jibed. "For it's the same thing--no difference
whether you picked it out of Mr. Flint's pocket or found it on the floor
here, and tried to keep it! Steal, eh? Hold it for some possible reward?
You skunk! Lucky you haven't brains enough to make out what's in it!
Thought you'd keep it, did you? But you weren't smart enough,
Armstrong--no, not quite smart enough for me! After looking the whole
place over, I thought I'd have a go at a few pockets--and, you see? Oh,
you'll have to get up early to beat _me_ at the game you--you thief!"

With the last word, he raised the book and struck the young man a
blistering welt across the face with it.

Armstrong fell back, against the bench, perfectly livid, with the wale
of the blow standing out red and distinct across his cheek. Then he went
pale as death, and staggered as though about to faint.

"God--God in