They fell silent, peering intently into the fog, listening. Jake heard the sound, like the ringing of cowbells only pitched a little higher, coming up the road. The men dropped their coffee cups and shouldered their way back into formation. Maybe the strikebreakers were marching up on foot, but why the bells? If they had decided to sneak in without the trucks, why would they announce their arrival? The little bells echoed up the hill, a thin, tinny sound drifting through the rain and the rolling layers of fog.

Jake felt himself tense, felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He clenched and unclenched his fists, bounced a little on his toes, threw a combination to get loose as he would have in the ring.

A big blond kid standing next to Jake had to pull out of the line to vomit. The men hooted and laughed as he retched.

“What’s the matter, boy? Nerves got to you? Never been in a fight before? Say, maybe Tatro will let you go home to your mommy!”

The kid wiped his mouth and stepped back into the line. Jake saw his hands shaking. He leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t listen to them bastards hollerin at you,” he said. “They’re as scared as you are. I had seventy fights in the ring and I was scared before every single fight. If you aint scared, you aint ready. Soon as you hit somethin, you’ll feel a whole lot better.”

The kid gave him a grateful smile. He was six foot four and well over two hundred pounds, but he was no more than eighteen or nineteen. Like the soldiers they sent into combat in the war, Jake thought. Always too damned young.