McGaw turned his head in search of the singer, and not finding him, resumed his position.
“What are your rates per ton?” asked Babcock.
“We're a-chargin' forty cints,” said McGaw, deferring to Lathers, as if for confirmation.
“Who's 'we'?”
“The Stevedores' Union.”
“But Mrs. Grogan is doing it for thirty,” said Babcock, looking straight into McGaw's eyes, and speaking slowly and deliberately.
“Yis, I heared she wuz a-cuttin' rates; but she can't live at it. If I does it, it'll be done roight, an' no throuble.”
“I'll think it over,” said Babcock quietly, turning on his heel. The meanness of the whole affair offended him—two big, strong men vilifying a woman with no protector but her two hands. McGaw should never lift a shovel for him.
Again the song floated out; this time it seemed nearer,—
“… wid McGeechy—
McGeechy of the Fourth.”
“Dan McGaw's giv'n it to you straight,”
