His eyes glinted with humorless conviction and I had to drop my head to hide my grin.
"You notice that sign on top of the building?"
"Oh, you can't miss that," I said.
"You read the slogan?"
"I don't remember, I was in such a hurry."
"Well, you might not believe it, but I helped the Old Man make up that slogan. 'If It's Optic White, It's the Right White,' " he quoted with an upraised finger, like a preacher quoting holy writ. "I got me a three-hundred-dollar bonus for helping to think that up. These newfangled advertising folks is been tryin' to work up something about the other colors, talking about rainbows or something, but hell, they caint get nowhere."
" 'If It's Optic White, It's the Right White,'" I repeated and suddenly had to repress a laugh as a childhood jingle rang through my mind:
" 'If you're white, you're right,' " I said.
"That's it," he said. "And that's another reason why the Old Man ain't goin' to let nobody come down here messing with me. He knows what a lot of them new fellers don't; he knows that the reason our paint is so good is because of the way Lucius Brockway puts the pressure on them oils and resins before they even leaves the tanks." He laughed maliciously. "They thinks 'cause everything down here is done by machinery, that's all there is to it. They crazy! Ain't a continental thing that happens down here that ain't as iffen I done put my black hands into it! Them machines just do the cooking, these here hands right here do the sweeting. Yes, sir! Lucius Brockway hit it square on the head! I dips my fingers in and sweets it! Come on, let's eat . . ."
"But what about the gauges?" I said, seeing him go over and take a thermos bottle from a shelf near one of the furnaces.
"Oh, we'll be here close enough to keep an eye on 'em. Don't you worry 'bout that."
"But I left my lunch in the locker room over at Building No. 1."
"Go on and git it and come back here and eat. Down here we have to always be on the job. A man don't need no more'n fifteen minutes to eat no-how; then I say let him git on back on the job."
Upon opening the door I thought I had made a mistake. Men dressed in splattered painters' caps and overalls sat about on benches, listening to a thin tubercular-looking man who was addressing them in a nasal voice. Everyone looked at me and I was starting out when the thin man called, "There's plenty of seats for late comers. Come in, brother . . ."
Brother? Even after my weeks in the North this was surprising. "I was looking for the locker room," I spluttered.
"You're in it, brother. Weren't you told about the meeting?"
"Meeting? Why, no, sir, I wasn't."
The chairman frowned. "You see, the bosses are not co-operating," he said to the others. "Brother, who's your foreman?"
"Mr. Brockway, sir," I said.
Suddenly the men began scraping their feet and cursing. I looked about me. What was wrong? Were they objecting to my referring to Brockway as Mister?
"Quiet, brothers," the chairman said, leaning across his table, his hand cupped to his ear. "Now what was that, brother; who is your foreman?"
"Lucius Brockway, sir," I said, dropping the Mister.
But this seemed only to make them more hostile. "Get him the hell out of here," they shouted. I turned. A group on the far side of the room kicked over a bench, yelling, "Throw him out! Throw him out!"
I inched backwards, hearing the little man bang on the table for order. "Men, brothers! Give the brother a chance . . ."
"He looks like a dirty fink to me. A first-class enameled fink!"
The hoarsely voiced word grated my ears like "nigger" in an angry southern mouth . . .
"Brothers, please!" The chairman was waving his hands as I reached out behind me for the door and touched an arm, feeling it snatch violently away. I dropped my hand.
"Who sent this fink into the meeting, brother chairman? Ask him that!" a man demanded.
"No, wait," the chairman said. "Don't ride that word too hard . . ."
"Ask him, brother chairman!" another man said.
"Okay, but don't label a man a fink until you know for sure." The chairman turned to me. "How'd you happen in here, brother?"
The men quieted, listening.
"I left my lunch in my locker," I said, my mouth dry.
"You weren't sent into the meeting?"
"No, sir, I didn't know about any meeting."
"The hell he says. None of these finks ever knows!"
"Throw the lousy bastard out!"
"Now, wait," I said.
They became louder, threatening.
"Respect the chair!" the chairman shouted. "We're a democratic union here, following democratic --"
"Never mind, git rid of the fink!"
". . . procedures. It's our task to make friends with all the workers. And I mean all. That's how we build the union strong. Now let's hear what the brother's got to say. No more of that beefing and interrupting!"
I broke into a cold sweat, my eyes seeming to have become extremely sharp, causing each face to stand out vivid in its hostility.
I heard, "When were you hired, friend?"
"This morning," I said.
"See, brothers, he's a new man. We don't want to make the mistake of judging the worker by his foreman. Some of you also work for sonsabitches, remember?"
Suddenly the men began to laugh and curse. "Here's one right here," one of them yelled.
"Mine wants to marry the boss's daughter -- a frigging eight-day wonder!"
This sudden change made me puzzled and angry, as though they were making me the butt of a joke.