_git out'n that there chair!_"

"Look here," Conniston replied, quietly, "I didn't know that I was
taking a seat reserved for you, and I didn't mean any offense. You can
take that as a sort of an apology if you like. But at the same time,
even if I am to take orders from you, I am not going to be bulldozed
by you or anybody like you. If you will ask me decently--"

"Ask you!" bellowed Brayley. "Ask you! By the Lord, I don't _ask_ my
men! I _make_ 'em!"

He had leaped forward with his last word, his two big hands
outstretched with clawing fingers. Before Conniston could spring from
his chair to meet the attack the iron hands were upon his shoulders.
He felt himself being lifted bodily from his seat. His weight was
scarcely less than the irate foreman's, and he employed every pound of
it as he staggered to his feet and flung himself against his burly
antagonist. The men about the table sat still, watching, saying no
word.

Conniston's strength was less than the other's, and he knew it, knew
that his endurance would be nothing against the muscles seasoned by
daily physical work until they were like steel. He knew that in two
minutes of battling struggle he would be like a kitten in the big,
powerful hands. And he was of no mind to have Brayley manhandle him
before such an audience as was now sitting quietly watching,
listening to his panting breaths. In one straining effort he jerked
his right shoulder free, swung his clenched fist back, and drove it
smashing into Brayley's face.