Another was Lonesome Pete. Conniston was more gratified than he knew
when the red-headed reader of "Macbeth" nodded to him and said a quiet
"Howdy." The last man to come in was Brayley.

He was a big man, a trifle shorter than Conniston, but heavier, with
broader shoulders, rounded from years in the saddle, with great, deep
chest, and thick, powerful arms. He lurched lightly as he walked, his
left shoulder thrust forward as though he were constantly about to
fling open a door with its solid impact. He was a man of forty,
perhaps, and as active of foot as a boy. His heavy, belligerent jaw,
the sharp, beady blackness of his eyes, the whole alert, confident air
of him bespoke the born foreman.

Conniston was conscious of the piercing black eyes as they swept the
table and rested on him. He noticed that Brayley alone of the men who
had entered late had no word of greeting for the others, received no
single word from them. And he saw further, wondering vaguely what it
meant, that as the big foreman came in the eyes of all the others went
first to him and then to Conniston.

Brayley stopped a moment at the door, washing his face and hands
swiftly, carelessly, satisfied in rubbing a good part of the evidence
of the day's toil upon the towel hanging upon a nail close at hand.
Three strokes with the community comb, dangling from a bit of string,
and jerking his neck-handkerchief into place, he lurched toward the
table. Five feet away he stopped suddenly, his eyes burning into
Conniston's.

"Who might you be, stranger?" he snapped, his words coming with
unpleasant, almost metallic sharpness.