Silas Doolittle Bugg was sitting on a log outside the mill, looking as if somebody had just told him the executioner was coming along to cut off both his legs with a meat-ax. He was about the most woebegone and sorrowful and downhearted-looking man I ever set eyes on. He drooped all over like a geranium that has been touched by frost. Yes, sir, he looked like all his leaves was going to fall off.

“M-mornin, Silas!” says Mark.

Silas just looked up and nodded and then looked down again. I was afraid he might start in to cry.

“S-somethin’ wrong?” says Mark.

“Everythin’,” says Silas.

“For instance?” says Mark.

“It hain’t no use,” says Silas. “We’re done for. We’re jest naturally up and done for.”

“Maybe,” says Mark, “but what m-makes you think so?”

“Men’s all quit,” says Silas.

“Git more.”

“Wiggamore hires ’em away as fast as I can.”

“We’ll see about that. Is that all?”

“All! Why, it hain’t even a start.”

“What else?”

“Seems like I didn’t quite pay for them lathes, and along comes a feller with a chattel mortgage. I clean forgot about it. No sooner does he come along, bringin’ a deputy sheriff with him, than another man rushes in and claims our dowel-machine because the feller I bought it off of hadn’t ever paid for it, and he fetched along another deputy sheriff. Mill’s plumb full of sheriffs a-settin’ onto machinery.”

“How much?” says Mark, without winking an eye. I was in a regular panic, but not him. You would have thought he expected to hear something like this and was ready for it.

“One man wants two hunderd and eighty, the other says he’s got a hunderd and seventy-three comin’.”

“That m-makes four hunderd and f-f-fifty-three dollars,” says Mark.

“And that hain’t all. The factory inspector’s there, and he says we can’t run another day till we build outside fire-escapes from the second and third floors made out of iron. Hain’t got no idee what that’ll cost, but plenty.”

“Um!... That all?”

“Hain’t it enough?”

“Suits me,” says Mark, “but b-b-before I start to work cleanin’ it up I want to be sure it’s all out. I don’t want nothin’ else p-poppin’ up when this is done.”

“You goin’ to try to fix this up?” says Silas, looking as astonished as if an angle-worm had looked up in his face and invited him to dinner.

“Hain’t g-goin’ to try,” says Mark. “I’m goin’ to d-do it.”

“Well,” says Silas, “I guess that’s about all. I can’t think of nothin’ else.”

“Thank goodness for that,” says I.

“P-probably take clost to a thousand dollars,” says Mark, mentioning a thousand dollars as if all he had to do was to reach into his pants pocket and haul it out.

“The sheriffs say they’re goin’ to take that machinery out of here in twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours, eh? Well, that’s quite a while, hain’t it? A f-feller kin do quite a lot in twenty-four hours if he hustles.... Now, Silas, you sit still on that log and enjoy bein’ m-m-miserable. That’s all I ask of you. Don’t do anythin’, because if you do you’ll git us into more t-trouble. Jest sit and think. Don’t talk to nobody and don’t sign anythin’ and don’t do anythin’. Us fellers’ll hustle around.”

“All right,” says Silas, “but it hain’t no use.”

“If you git p-pleasure out of thinkin’ so,” says Mark, “why, go ahead. I feel d-different.”

Mark started to walk off, and we followed him.

“Where you goin’?” says I.

“See a lawyer,” says he.

“What for?”

“Find out about them f-fire-escapes.”

Well, we went to a lawyer and told him, and he says the law wasn’t made to apply to cases such as ours, but that a factory inspector that was mean and crooked might make it twist around so as to make us trouble. He says that, anyhow, the factory inspector could shut us down for a spell till we fought it out, and fighting it out would be expensive.

“All right,” says Mark. “It’s Wiggamore b-behind all this. He’s got money and influence, and he’s fixed this all up. If we kin settle Wiggamore, we kin settle the whole thing. Let’s forgit about the f-f-fire-escapes and look into gittin’ money to satisfy them other claims.”

“’Most five hunderd dollars,” says I.

“That hain’t as bad as if it was f-f-five thousand,” says Mark.

Now wasn’t that just like him? Nothin’ was so bad in his eyes but what it could be a whole lot worse, and he always managed to look on the bright side. Not that he was given much to thinking things was easier and safer than they was, but he always let on that he could do what he had to and was thankful it wasn’t a lot more.

“Where’ll we git that money?”

“T-try the bank,” says he.

Well, we did that, but the president of the bank said he had helped us all he could. He would loan money on our bills of lading, but he couldn’t do any more. He wouldn’t take a mortgage on the mill, and he wouldn’t lend any other way. That was all there was to it. Mark thanked him for giving us his time, just like we had got what we wanted. He acted like that man had done him a favor, and out we went.

“Well?” says I.

“Didn’t expect m-much to git it there,” says he.

“Where do you expect to git it?”

“Don’t know. Got to t-t-think.”

“Then do it quick,” says I. “Time’s flyin’.”

“’Tain’t no use to try to b-borrow,” says he. “And if we did that’s jest p-puttin’ off trouble. We’d have to pay sometime. If we got to p-pay sometime, we might as well pay now.”

“Sure,” says I, sarcastic as vinegar. “That’s the way I feel. You jest hand me the money and I’ll run down and pay it.”

“Plunk,” says he, “the only part of your head that’s alive is your l-l-lower jaw. If you can’t help, don’t hinder.” Then he looked at me and grinned and says: “Now I hadn’t ought to have spoke that way, but I was worried and bothered and it jest s-slipped out. I know you’re helpin’ all you kin, and will be right there to back me up in the p-pinch. You hain’t mad about what I said, be you?”

Well, I was a mite hot, but what was a fellow to do when he spoke that way? It was my fault, anyhow, and I see that right off.

“Course I hain’t,” says I. “I got what was comin’ to me. I’ll shut up and obey orders.”

“Let’s see,” says he, “how does f-folks raise money? They b-borrow it or sell somethin’ and git it, or have it given to ’em—or else they hustle around and m-make it. We can’t borrow. We hain’t got n-nothin’ to sell, and nobody’s goin’ to give it to us. The only way l-left is to m-make it. That’s what we got to study over.”

“Five hunderd dollars in twenty-four hours!” says Binney.

“I’ve read about men that’s m-made a million in less time,” says Mark.

Well, we started back to the mill, and who should we meet right in front of the hotel but Wiggamore himself. He looked at us like he didn’t know us and was passing on, but Mark stopped and went right up to him.

“Mornin’, Mr. Wiggamore,” says he.

“Good morning,” says Mr. Wiggamore.

“Don’t you know me?” says Mark, soft and gentle like.

“Can’t say I do,” says Wiggamore, but you could tell by his eyes that he did.

“I’m Mark Tidd, and these other fellers is with me runnin’ Silas Doolittle Bugg’s mill. I guess m-maybe you remember talkin’ to me about buyin’ our dam.”

“Oh yes!” says Wiggamore, making like he was surprised. “So I did. You wouldn’t sell, I remember.”

“Not at your f-figger.”

“Too bad. Well, if you want to talk about selling now, it’s too late. I don’t want to buy.”

“So I judged,” says Mark, “but I sort of f-f-figgered it was square to give you another chance. I b-believe in doin’ business fair and square. That dam is valuable to you. You’ve got to have it. It is worth a lot of m-money to you, and we’ll consider a reasonable offer.”

“I wouldn’t offer you a cent,” says Wiggamore.

“Don’t you want our dam?”

“Yes, but I’m through monkeying with you. I’m not throwing money away. You wouldn’t sell, and so I washed my hands of you. If you get your fingers burnt, why, it’s your own fault. You can’t get in the way of a big enterprise like mine. You did and I’m going to kick you out of the way. That’s all.”

“How would you l-like to be in our place?”

“I’m not, so I can’t say.”

“And you f-f-figger you got us beat? That’s it? You think you got us l-licked with your factory inspectors, and your chattel m-mortgages, and hirin’ our men away from us so we can’t run. You sort of calc’late to git our dam for n-nothin’.”

“Oh, not as cheaply as that!”

“Mr. Wiggamore, I’m givin’ you one more chance. I’ve played fair with you, and so have all of us. Will you play f-fair with us?”

“I won’t have anything to do with you. That dam is mine, or will be in a couple of days. You might as well give up gracefully now. How do you figure you can do anything—a crowd of boys without a cent—against the Power Company? You were beaten before you started.”

“We f-figgered on one thing,” says Mark, sort of slow. “We figgered that as big a man as you be wouldn’t stoop to cheat and scheme and bulldoze jest to s-s-save a few dollars. We f-figgered that real business men did business honest and aboveboard. We figgered that somewheres in your big company was men that wouldn’t stand by to git rich by gougin’ other folks out of money they’d worked hard and honest to earn. That’s how we l-looked at it. But I guess we was wrong.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, boy,” says Wiggamore.

“I jest got a couple m-more words to say, and I’m goin’ to say ’em. I know all big b-business men hain’t like you. I know most of ’em is honest and fair. Jest because we run acrost a man like you don’t make us think they’re all like you. What it makes us think is that if them other m-men knew how you acted to us they’d be ashamed of you. They wouldn’t want to have anythin’ to do with you. They wouldn’t do business with you.... The more I think about it the more it gits into my head that you hain’t a real business man at all. You’re jest a feller that’s got up in the world because he was willin’ to do dirty things that other men wouldn’t touch.... Sich men don’t last. Maybe you kin git ahead for a while, but it’s only for a while. I jest wanted to let you know what we think of you, and to tell you this: We was willin’ to be reasonable. We was w-willin’ to come to t-terms. Now you can’t make no t-terms with us. It’s f-fight. We’ll git all we kin. We’ll make you pay the l-last cent we kin git out of you—and you’ll pay it, too. That’s all, Mr. Wiggamore, and good m-mornin’.”

He turned his back and walked off fast. I looked back, and Wiggamore was looking after him with a queer kind of a look that was more than half mad, but mixed with something else that I couldn’t quite make out. Anyhow, says I to myself, whatever happens, we got the satisfaction of knowing that man hain’t mistaken about what we think of him.

“Now what?” says I to Mark.

“Fight,” says he. “I hain’t n-never been in no fight before. This hain’t no reg’lar fight, it’s between Wiggamore and us. What I’m goin’ to f-find out is this—if business will stand for sich men as Wiggamore. That’s what I’m goin’ to f-find out.”

“How?” says I.

“When there’s a war,” says Mark, “the thing to do is to capture the enemy’s strongest p-place—the place that’s d-defendin’ all his country. Do that and you win. I’m g-goin’ to try to capture Wiggamore’s stronghold.”

“Don’t sound jest clear to me,” says I.

“It will,” says he, “b-because you’re goin’ to help me, and so are Tallow and B-Binney.”

“Where’s this here fort?”

“In the city,” says he.

“We’re goin’ there?”

“Horse, f-foot, and artillery,” says he.

“When?”

“First t-train.”

“That’s one o’clock.”

“Yes. All git ready. Be at the depot. Now h-hustle.”

“We’ll be there,” says I, and so did Tallow and Binney.

You bet we’d be there. Nothing short of an earthquake helped out by a cyclone and a hurricane and a ton of dynamite could have kept us away, for we knew something big was going to happen. Mark Tidd was mad. He was mad all the way through, like I had never seen him before, and he was going after a bigger fight than he had ever been in. I wouldn’t have missed seeing it to be invited to dinner by the President.

“It hain’t l-like this was jest our fight,” says he. “It’s everybody’s f-fight. If real big b-business men will stand for doin’s like Wiggamore’s I want to know it. The mill and our b-business is little and don’t amount to m-much. We’re goin’ to f-f-fight for somethin’ bigger. It’s what folks call the p-principle.”

“Jest so it’s a fight,” says I, “I don’t care if it’s for a bag of peanuts.”

“You would if you t-thought about it,” says he, sort of solemn. And when I got home I did think about it, and somehow I come to see that he was right and that fighting for a principle is about the biggest thing a fellow can do.... Only, he wants to be sure he’s got a regular principle to fight for.