CHAPTER XI.
FRANKLIN SHOWS HIS GRIT.
On entering the house Franklin at once made his way to his own room, and here speedily removed all signs of his late struggle with his fellow-workmen. He thought the matter over and decided to say nothing of the affair to any one and to allow matters to take their own course.
On the following morning when he went to work Jackson and Nolan both came in late. Each looked keenly at Franklin, who returned their gaze steadily, but not a word was spoken upon either side. Yet it was evident that both sides were at swords' points.
"They will try some underhand game," thought Franklin. "Even with two to one they are afraid to tackle me openhanded."
But if the young electrician was right it was evident that Bob Jackson and Mike Nolan were going to take their time about it. The whole of that day passed, and also many others and nothing out of the ordinary occurred.
During this time, Franklin grew more proficient in his work, and on the third day turned out fully as much as either of his fellow-workmen. It was evident that by the end of a week or ten days he would be able to do at least ten per cent. more than they. Jackson and Nolan saw this, but, strange to say, still kept their mouths closed about it.
Franklin had been making many inquiries concerning boarding places, and finally found something which just suited him. A real old motherly lady had a hall bedroom to spare, and agreed to board him for four dollars a week, and this Franklin readily accepted. He calculated that he would make at least nine or ten dollars a week at his work and this would leave him five to send to his aunt weekly. Not a large sum, but one he knew would come in very acceptably.
Franklin made himself agreeable to all of the others in the the shop, but, as he was naturally above them, and they knew it, there was not one of them took to him. Some of the young fellows began to call him Softy, and the smaller boys would cut up behind his back, making grimaces at which their companions would roar. They called him the gent that was going to buy out the works next week and wanted to know from each other why he didn't wear white gloves when at his bench. They also tacked his polishing rags fast, and more than once hid his tools.
Franklin took all these petty annoyances good-naturedly, and went his own way. He was in hopes of ere long getting into the regular electrical department, where, he felt certain, he would be better treated.
But one day something happened which brought the boy's true character to the surface, and surprised even those who had imagined he had some "sand" in him.
Among the boys who worked in the far corner of the shop, boxing screws, was a pale and sickly lame lad not over twelve years of age. The lad's name was Harry Leclair, and he was the only son of a widow who was once well-to-do, but was now exceedingly poor. There was something the matter with Harry's left foot, which caused him to cut an awkward figure when he walked, and in addition to this the poor boy was not over bright, he having suffered from a fall upon his head when an infant.
The boys and young fellows in the shop never tired of poking fun at this lad, much to Franklin's disgust. They would steal his crutch and his overcoat, and once they took his hat and compelled him to walk home bareheaded, and they did a thousand and one other things to worry and annoy him.
Harry Leclair was not one to take these matters calmly, and he would scold and rave at them, and this would only make others roar with laughter, for they knew he was too small to attack them. And, besides this, his head being weak, he would, when excited, say all sorts of strange things, and this would add to their senseless amusement.
"They ought to have sense enough to leave the poor fellow alone," Franklin thought more than once. "If they keep on, one of these days he will become insane, and do something desperate."
The young electrician endeavored to make a friend of the weak-minded lad, but was unsuccessful. Harry had been tormented so much that he was suspicious of everybody, and he only thought Franklin's advances the forerunner of more cruel jokes at his expense.
On the day in question it was snowing heavily, and the ground was covered to the depth of a foot or more. A keen north wind was blowing, making it cold even in the shop, which was heated by steam pipes.
Harry had complained of his feet being cold, and right before quitting time one of the young fellows had advised him to take off his shoes and warm his feet on the pipes under his bench. He had removed his shoes, and no sooner had they been placed on the floor than they were snatched up and carried off.
"Here come back with my shoes!" cried the lame boy, wrathfully, but the fellow who had taken them only laughed and so did his companions.
"Fill them with snow for Limpy," suggested one.
"Stick 'em in a tub of ice water and cool 'em off," added another.
"Not much," shouted the one who had taken up the shoes. "I'm going to take them home with me and give them to me brother," and he winked at his companions.
"I want my shoes, Felter! Give them right back to me!" cried Harry, in wild alarm, and he started after the boy, who was making for the door, for the whistle had just blown.
"You'll have to go home barefooted, Limpy," returned Felter, heartlessly. "It's all right, though, the snow will twist your ugly stump into shape, maybe."
"If you don't give me my shoes I'll—I'll kill you," shrieked Harry, flying into a sudden rage, as he saw the boy spring out of his reach into the deep snow.
"What do you want to tease the poor boy in that way for?" demanded Franklin, who had witnessed the whole scene. "He may catch his death of cold if he goes out in the snow in his stocking feet."
"What do I care if he does!" retorted Felter, roughly. "I'd like to know what business this is of yours?" he added with a dark look.
"I won't see the poor boy abused, that's how much business it is of mine," was Franklin's sharp reply. "Give me those shoes."
And without waiting he caught hold of the shoes and twisted them from Felter's grasp.
"Stop!" roared Felter. "Give those back, Softy, or we'll have a big row right here. I'm going to do as I please with them."
"Give it to him, Felter!" put in Bob Jackson, eagerly. "I'll stand by you!"
"So will I!" added Mike Nolan. "He wants taking down. Give him one in the nose!"
"I will if he don't give the shoes back," growled Felter, doubling up his big fists. Felter was over twenty years of age and a heavyweight. He glared down at Franklin as if fully confident of crushing the young electrician were it necessary.
"The shoes go to Harry," was all Franklin said, and running back he handed the pair to the lame boy, who at once proceeded to put them on.
"You soft-hearted dude!" cried Felter, in a rage, "I'll make it warm ioryou for spoiling our fun. How do you like that?"
That was a heavy blow delivered right from the shoulder and intended to land upon Franklin's face and take him off his feet. But the young electrician was on his guard and he ducked quickly, and Felter's fist only struck in a spent way upon Mike Nolan's chest, for the Irish boy had been on the point of attacking Franklin from the rear.
All of those employed in the shop immediately gathered around Felter and Franklin, Jackson and Nolan pressing close upon the young electrician.
Franklin saw that it was more than likely that the contest would be an unequal one, yet he did not attempt to run away. He felt that he must now show his true colors or forever after obey whenever called upon to do so.
"Stand back or take the consequences!" he cried, as calmly as he could. "I warn you that I am not to be trifled with!"
"Oh, ho!" hear him talk!" retorted Felter, mockingly, and once more he launched out at Franklin.
The second blow landed upon the young electricion's shoulder. It was not heavy, but it seemed to arouse all of the lion in his nature. He stepped back, bumping up against Bob Jackson in doing so, and the next instant Felter received such a swift and surprisingly heavy blow in the temple that he keeled over flat upon his back and all but senseless.
For the moment after Felter went down there was a dead silence in the factory yard. The unexpected had happened and no one knew what to say.
"What—what—" stammered the heavyweight, as he rolled over and essayed to rise to his feet.
"Have you had enough?" demanded Franklin, as he stood over him, his hst still doubled up and his eyes flashing.
"That wasn't fair!" muttered Felter, unable to say anything more. With his face full of passion he rose to feet and put his hand to his forehead, where a blackish lump was rapidly rising.
"It was as fair as your two blows were," retorted Franklin. "It was yourself forced the flght."
"Go for him again, Felter!" shouted Jackson, we'll back you up!"
"Of course we will!" added Mike Nolan. "Don't let a little blow like that worry you!"
"It ain't worrying me!" growled Felter, and once more he sprang forward, resolved to annihilate the young electrician.
Franklin stood his ground and warded off Felter's wild passes as best he could. Then the two clenched and went down in the snow, and on top of them came Jackson and Nolan, who now thought they saw a chance of "squaring accounts."
"Give it to Softy!"
"We don't want no dudes in this shop!"
"Send him home to be put in a glass case!
These and a dozen other things rang out on the cold, snowy air, bringing to the scene a score of workmen from other parts of the works.