The gravity of the strike situation increased. There was small prospect of immediate yielding on either side. A few turbulent strikers blustered and threatened, secret mass meetings were held, and whispers of ugly times ahead ran through The Flatiron. Mrs. Stickney did not place much faith in these rumors, yet they added to her restlessness, and she redoubled her efforts to find work.

Blue walked the streets out of school hours, searching for a job; but with the throngs of unemployed, many bent on the same business, he stood only a chance with hundreds. His extra earnings grew lighter, and the home purse correspondingly thin. The bird’s food box was empty, and insects, dead or alive, were scarce. The mother dealt out rations with a sparing hand, and nobody asked for more. Finally came a day, the day that had been feared, when purse and pantry fell to the rank of Caruso’s box, and the breakfast table showed only a bowl of baked bean soup.

The boys waited at their plates, Mrs. Stickney pottering about the stove.

“Better hurry!” urged Blue. “It’ll get cold.”

“You eat it all; I don’t want any breakfast.”

“Not much!” declared the boy. “We’re going to wait till you come.”

“Course we are,” Doodles agreed.

“Oh, dear,” she fretted, half chuckling, “what children you are!” She sat down and ate what Blue ladled out for her—she did not know whether it was much or little, her mind was too distracted and her eyes too misty. But the boy knew, and felt that he could better go hungry than his mother.

Mrs. Stickney went out early on her forlorn errand, her heart full of prayer for work. If nothing could be obtained to-day, she must try to get a little more credit at the market—enough to bridge over this crisis. After that—well, perhaps the strike would end! And, sighing, she trudged on.

Blue decided daringly to stay away from school, and hunt for work. He had not suggested such a thing to his mother, well knowing her sanction would be hard to win. He reasoned, however, that this was an extreme case, and that he must earn some money before night. Five hours of extra time would give him a greater chance, and he resolved to take it.

“Are you very hungry, kiddie?” he queried as he took up his cap.

“Oh, no!” smiled Doodles. “I had a good breakfast; didn’t you?”

“Capital!” lied Blue. “But I’m goin’ to get yer something better to-day—see if I don’t!”

“What you going to get?” coaxed Doodles.

“I d’n’ know yet—depends on how much I earn.” He went off whistling, for the sake of the little brother who must not guess that the pantry was empty.

Along the warehouses, beyond the school district, Blue kept his truant way; but nobody was in need of an errand boy in that quarter, and after nine o’clock he turned back towards the market section. Here he met a man who was looking for somebody to hold his horse.

“He’s a leetle bit afraid o’ them autos,” the countryman explained, and the boy well earned his five cents in the full quarter of an hour that he spent in quieting the nervous animal.

Blue went home at the usual time. Nothing beyond the five cents had been obtainable, and after a good deal of thought he had finally exchanged it for half a dozen buns, arguing that buns would taste better than bread without butter.

“Oh, I’m so glad you bought buns!” beamed Doodles. “I just love buns with currants in them!”

The meager dinner waited until one o’clock; then, as the mother had not come, the boys ate their share, feeding currants to Caruso and laughing to see him snap them up so joyously.

“Mother must have found work, don’t you think?” Doodles asked a bit anxiously.

“Sure, old feller! Don’t you be worryin’ ’bout that! She’ll come all right pretty soon.”

Blue loitered on a side street until the clanging of the school bell had ceased; then he boldly faced the throngs on the principal thoroughfare. He applied at a dozen or more offices for something to do, meeting only curt refusals. Finally a man more observing than the rest asked abruptly:—

“See here, why ain’t you in school? You’re not fourteen yet?”

“No, sir,” admitted the boy, with a guilty flush. “I stayed out to try to get a job.”

“Huh!” the man snorted. “Bet yer belong to the strikers! Don’t yer now?”

“Yes, sir; but my mother had to—”

“Oh! it’s yer mother, is it? So much the worse! Well, you c’n tell her from me that if she’s such a fool as to give up a good job she needn’t send her kids round here expectin’ me to support ’em! Now scoot, or I’ll have the truant officer after yer!”

The boy’s eyes burned angrily, and he was off even before he received his orders; but his ears were sharp, and he missed not a word. A sneering laugh followed him, and pressed the injustice still closer against his heart.

Thoughts of his mother’s brave fight for work, and of helpless little Doodles, uncomplaining in his loneliness and privations, sent hot tears to his eyes, and he darted blindly round the first corner, as if the very street that held his enemy were not to be trusted.

On and on he ran, unmindful of his way, until he became suddenly conscious of something unusual in the air, and, looking ahead, he saw a crowd of people moving slowly towards him. That it was an excited crowd was evident from the tumult of voices, mingled with shouts and yells, now plain above the noise of the street.

“Must be goin’ to have a meeting—or had one,” he told himself. “The union hall is down there on Blake Avenue.”

“Hello, Rob!” he called to a boy racing by on the opposite side. “What’s up?”

“Oh, somethin’ fierce! Better not go any nearer!” the lad warned. “Dad he said, ‘Git out o’ this on the double-quick, ’less yer want yer head smashed!’ I tell yer, ther’ ’s goin’ to be an awful row! Hope dad won’t git killed—my!”

“Aw, nobody’s goin’ to get killed! What you talking about!” Blue’s face showed scorn.

“Bet yer ther’ will, now! You hain’t been there, an’ I have!”

“I’m goin’!” He started.

“Oh, don’t! Wait! wait a minute!” cried the other, aghast at such recklessness.

Blue halted. “What yer want?”

“Why, I tell yer, ther’ ’s goin’ to be a big fight!”

“A fight! Not much! There’s Tom Fitzpatrick down there—ain’t it? Looks like him. Guess ther’ won’t be many shiners where he is!”

“Huh! what can one cop do alone! Ther’ ain’t another anywheres, an’, I tell yer, he’s got his hands full!”

“He can bring ’em easy enough with his whistle. He told me how—”

“Aw! he dassent blow it in face o’ that mob! Why, they’d knock him down quicker! Bet they’ll kill him anyway!—Oh, don’t yer!”

But Blue was flying towards the tumult, and Rob, with one glance at the on-coming rabble, fled in the opposite direction.

Tom Fitzpatrick in danger! The thought gave speed to Blue’s feet. As he drew nearer, he could hear the rich voice, rising above the rest, but calm and steady, not a bit as if its owner were afraid of those angry men.

“Don’t you know you mustn’t carry that?” he was saying. And thrusting at a red flag, he grabbed and furled it.

With a mad outcry and yells of “Down with him! Down with him!” the crowd surged towards the officer.

At that moment, right in front of the fearless Fitzpatrick, almost under his hands, popped up a small boy.

“Can I help you?”

It was little more than a breath, but Tom caught it, and glanced down with the hint of a smile as he recognized Blue Stickney.

“Sure! Blow my whistle!” was the quick answer, in a tone to match the query. With a deft motion, the little instrument was in the boy’s hand.

Thomas Fitzpatrick’s whistle! Blue could scarcely comprehend the truth. For the joy of this moment he would have braved greater dangers than the present. Only a few days ago—or so it seemed—the kindly officer had explained the uses of his whistle, telling over his various signals. Blue remembered them every one. Three sharp toots, then a long, long blast—that was for help, and, freeing himself from the jam, the bit of wood and metal was at his lips.

Above the uproar Fitzpatrick heard the call with inward relief. He had not felt sure that Blue would recollect; but he could scarcely have done better himself.

As for the boy, he repeated it fearlessly, exultingly, once, twice, three times, in swift succession; yet nobody interfered. A small boy with a whistle was not an unusual combination, and the mob had too much else on hand to be interested in boys.

It was not a brutal crowd, but it was excited, defiant, and reckless. If Thomas Fitzpatrick had not known just how to manage it, and if four brass-buttoned men had not come racing to his aid,—there is no telling what might have occurred. But before the body of the throng realized what was happening the leaders of the disturbance were being marched off to the police station.

Blue returned the whistle, and received most hearty thanks, given in his hero’s best style. Then he cut across an alley and an open lot, in a crow line for The Flatiron; he must unload his big news at home before looking further for work.

He found his mother already there. She was eating a slice of butterless bread, and she looked so weary and discouraged Blue quickly inferred that her day had been unsuccessful and that she had begged further credit at the market. Still even this could not rob his eyes of their happy brightness, and hope leaped in her own. But she dropped back into dejection when she learned the cause, growing only mildly interested in the story of the whistle. Doodles, however, overflowed with enthusiasm and questions.

“Wasn’t it just lovely you happened to be there?” he cried, his eyes a-sparkle. “Oh, I wish I could have heard you blow it! Please do tell it over once more!”

So the brother recounted the exciting incident, almost forgetting his mother’s sad face in reliving the part that had thrilled him with such delight.

“How much will your papers come to this week?” Mrs. Stickney sandwiched irrelevantly between sentences.

“Oh! I don’t know,” began Blue. “Yes, I guess about ninety cents. You see, the Newtons have moved ’way over west, and Mis’ Dempster owes me for two weeks. I do’ know whether she’s goin’ to skip or not.”

“Have the Sizars paid yet?”

“Not a cent!”

“Do you ask them for it?”

“Oh, I ring the bell every week—and between times, too! But they’re gen’ally out, or if they ain’t they won’t come to the door if they see it’s me—”

“I, Blue—not me!”

“Well, I,—and if they do come they say they haven’t got it that day, and so it goes.”

“It’s too bad,” the mother sighed. “I suppose you keep leaving the paper.”

“Of course. If I didn’t they’d get it of some other feller, and it’s my only chance.”

“I’d go an’ sit on the steps and wait till the man came,” put in Doodles. “Maybe he’d pay it. If he didn’t, I’d stay there all day long, an’ if they said to go away I’d tell ’em I was going to sit there till they paid me. And I’d stay an’ stay an’ stay. By ’n’ by the neighbors would begin to ask what I was there for, and, of course, I’d have to tell ’em, an’ then the folks would be so ’shamed they’d give me the money right off!” He ended with a chuckle.

Mrs. Stickney’s face relaxed into a smile, and Blue ran downstairs laughing.

On the boy’s return from his paper delivery he found excitement in the kitchen. His mother was crying, Granny O’Donnell was endeavoring to comfort her, and Doodles met his brother’s questioning eyes with a frightened face.

“Now, honey,” Granny was crooning, “ther’ ain’t annything to throuble about—it’ll all coome right!”

“What’s up?” demanded Blue, striding across the room.

“Sure, th’ p’lice ar-re afther ye,” began Granny, but broke off abruptly, as Mrs. Stickney sprang to her feet, and squaring her boy’s shoulders with her hands gazed steadily into the clear eyes.

“You haven’t—haven’t—” she faltered, and then hid her face against his rough coat, and ended her query with a sob.

“Of course, I haven’t!” he ventured recklessly. “Though I don’t know what in the world you’re driving at!”

The mother wiped her eyes, and swallowed hard.

“A policeman—was trying to find you. He didn’t come up here, for Granny told him you weren’t home. He said you were wanted at the police station ‘right away’! He didn’t know what the trouble was, or he wouldn’t tell. You gave back the whistle, didn’t you?”

“Sure! Why, mother, don’t you worry! I haven’t done anything except what Tom Fitzpatrick told me to! It may be the Sweeneys are makin’ a fuss about the bird,” he mused; “but if they are Tom’ll back me up all right. Now do stop cryin’!”

“You must go right off!”

“Well, I’m goin’! But I wish you wouldn’t act as if I’d stole a bank or shot the President! I tell you, there ain’t anything to cry for—you’re nervous! Poor little mother!” He kissed her, a most unusual attention for him, and then dashed away and downstairs.

But Mrs. Stickney darted after, calling him back.

He came with reluctance.

“What do you want? You mustn’t hinder me,” he objected.

“Tell the truth, Blue!” She picked a thread from his sleeve, and straightened his necktie with motherly care. “Whatever they ask you, tell them the whole truth!”

“Why, of course!” with laughing impatience. “Is that all?”

“Yes. And if they blame you for blowing the whistle—or anything, be sure and refer to Mr. Fitzpatrick. I ought to go with you, but I—”

“Aw, it ain’t necessary! I’m all right. Don’t you worry about me!”

Underneath his assumed bravery the boy had no relish for his errand, and he was somewhat dismayed to find that his friend was not visible at the police station. Still he went where he was bidden, with no show of fear, but holding his head high, as became the blower of Thomas Fitzpatrick’s whistle. For even the events of the last hour had by no means extinguished the glory of his afternoon exploit.

The chief was a burly man, with small, shrewd gray eyes set in a hard-lined face.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Blue Stickney, sir.”

“You are the boy, I believe, that summoned aid to Officer Fitzpatrick this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Who is your father?”

“My father died six years ago. He was Julius Stickney.”

The chief nodded gravely.

“You have a mother?”

“Oh, yes, sir!”

“What does she do? Does she work anywhere?”

“She did work at the Big Shop, till she had to go out on strike.”

“She was foolish to do it.” The sharp eyes looked straight into those of the boy.

Blue’s met them almost reproachfully. “She had to, sir! She’d ’a’ been glad enough to keep on! She’s looked everywhere for work. She was in McCann’s restaurant till he skipped—he cheated her out o’ ’most three weeks’ wages!”

“He’s a scamp! She isn’t the only one that got left.”

“I know that all right!” The boy wagged his head emphatically.

“So you’ve had a hard time to get along, have you?” The voice held a tender note; but, on inspection, Blue found the eyes to be as sharp as before.

“Pretty hard, sir.” There was no response, and the boy, remembering his mother’s last injunction, went on, with a rueful little laugh, “Breakfast ran short this morning, and I stayed out o’ school to see if I couldn’t find a job. Mother’s been lookin’ all day.”

“Find anything?”

Blue told briefly of his morning’s nickel, as well as of his mother’s ill success and her increasing indebtedness at the market.

“Well, we are under great obligations for the service you rendered the city this afternoon, and there’s a little something for your supper,” thrusting a bank bill into his hand. “You can tell your mother that it looks now as if the backbone of the strike was broken. We’ve got the leaders of the trouble locked up, and I guess the silver folks and their other hands will come to terms in a hurry. Tell her, too, that we congratulate her on having a son that’s got a head on his shoulders.”

Blue, red-faced and embarrassed, with stammering thanks, slipped quickly from the presence of the brusque chief, and dashed towards home.

His mother met him at the top of the stairs.

“All right!” he shouted. “Just see that!” He flourished his reward, his eyes rounding from his sudden discovery. “My, if ’t ain’t a five!”

Granny, who had lingered to give consolation in case it should be needed, came hobbling forward.

“Bluey, me b’y, I knew ye’d niver do annything that wud grave yer mother’s heart, an’ it’s proud I am o’ ye!” Granny’s hard old hand caught Blue’s little wiry one in a grip more emphatic than her words.

Mrs. Stickney listened to her boy’s story with growing joy, until when he repeated the chief’s message she dropped into a chair and hid her face in her hands.

“What in the world’s the matter?” gasped Blue.

“Why, she’s so happy!” piped Doodles, tears trickling down his flushed cheeks.

“And you too!” rallied his brother. “Well, if you folks ain’t the queerest! Don’t catch me cryin’ on this!” He swung the bill in uncontrolled glee, stopping abruptly to ask his mother what he should buy for supper.

He came home with parcels that set Doodles excitedly guessing what they could be, and when a grapefruit—his especial delight—was uncovered, the small boy broke into a hurrah that checked on her lips the mother’s remonstrance at Blue’s extravagant purchase. But with the marketman’s receipt in her hand, and the chief’s two messages in her heart, thankfulness outweighed all else.

Granny remained for a cup of tea, and the meal was as merry as four happy people and a blithe mocking bird could make it.