SAY!” Clarence blurted out, “there's going to be a strike!”

Oakley glanced up from his writing.

“What's that you are telling me, Clarence?”

“There's going to be a strike, Mr. Oakley.”

Dan smiled good-naturedly at the boy.

“I guess that has blown over, Clarence,” he said, kindly.

“No, it ain't. The men had a meeting last night. It was in the room over Jack Britt's saloon. I've just been talking with a fellow who was there; he told me.”

“Sit down,” said Oakley, pushing a chair towards him.

“Now, what is it?” as soon as he was seated. And Clarence, editing his reminiscences as he saw fit, gave a tolerably truthful account of his conversation with Spide. The source of his information, its general incompleteness, and the frequent divergences, occasioned by the boy's attempt to incorporate into the narrative a satisfactory reason for his own presence in the yards, did not detract from its value in Oakley's estimation. The mere fact that the men had held a meeting was in itself significant. Such a thing was new to Antioch, as yet unvisited by labor troubles.

“What is that you say about my father?” For he had rather lost track of the story and caught at the sudden mention of his father's name.

“Spide says they got it in for him. I can't just remember what he did say. It was something or other Griff Ryder knows about him. It's funny, but it's clean gone out of my head, Mr. Oakley.”

Oakley started. What could Ryder know about his father? What could any one know?

He was not left long in doubt. The next morning, shortly after he arrived at the office, he heard the heavy shuffling of many feet on the narrow platform outside his door, and a deputation from the carpenter-shop, led by Joe Stokes and Branyon, entered the room. For a moment or so the men stood in abashed silence about the door, and then moved over to his desk.

Oakley pushed back his chair, and, as they approached, came slowly to his feet. There was a hint of anger in his eyes. The whole proceeding smacked of insolence. The men were in their shirt-sleeves and overalls, and had on their hats. Stokes put up his hand and took off his hat. The others accepted this as a signal, and one after another removed theirs. Then followed a momentary shuffling as they bunched closer. Several, who looked as if they would just as soon be somewhere else, breathed deep and hard. The office force—Kerr, Holt, and Miss Walton—suspended their various tasks and stood up so as not to miss anything that was said of done.

“Well, men, what is it?” asked Oakley, sharply—so sharply that Clarence, who was at the water-cooler, started. He had never heard the manager use that tone before.

Stokes took a step forward and cleared his throat, as if to speak. Then he looked at his comrades, who looked back their encouragement at him.

“We want a word with you, Mr. Oakley,” said he.

“What have you to say?”

“Well, sir, we got a grievance,” began Stokes, weakly, but Branyon pushed him to one side hastily and took his place. He was a stockily built Irish-American, with plenty of nerve and a loose tongue. The men nudged each other. They knew Mike would have his say.

“It's just this, Mr. Oakley: There's a man in the carpenter-shop who's got to get out. We won't work with him no longer!”

“That's right,” muttered one or two of the men under their breath.

“Whom do you mean?” asked Oakley, and his tone was tense and strenuous, for he knew. There was an awkward silence. Branyon fingered his hat a trifle nervously. At last he said, doggedly:

“The man who's got to go is your father.”

“Why?” asked Oakley, sinking his voice. He guessed what was coming next, but the question seemed dragged from him. He had to ask it.

“We got nothing against you, Mr. Oakley, but we won't work in the same shop with a convicted criminal.”

“That's right,” muttered the chorus of men again.

Oakley's face flushed scarlet. Then every scrap of color left it.

“Get out of here!” he ordered, hotly.

“Don't we get our answer?” demanded Branyon.

While the interview was in progress, McClintock had entered, and now stood at the opposite end of the room, an attentive listener.

“No,” cried Oakley, hoarsely. “I'll put whom I please to work in the shops. Leave the room all of you!”

The men retreated before his fury, their self-confidence rather dashed by it. One by one they backed sheepishly out of the door, Branyon being the last to leave. As he quitted the room he called to Dan:

“We'll give you until to-morrow to think it over, but the old man's got to go.”

McClintock promptly followed Branyon, and Clarence darted after him. He was in time to witness the uncorking of the master-mechanic's vials of wrath, and to hear the hot exchange of words which followed.

“You can count your days with the Huckleberry numbered, Branyon,” he said. “I'm damned if I'll have you under me after this.”

“We'll see about that,” retorted Branyon, roughly. “Talk's cheap.”

“What's the old man ever done to you, you infernal loafer?”

“Shut up, Milt, and keep your shirt on!” said Stokes, in what he intended should be conciliatory tones. “We only want our rights.”

“We'll have 'em, too,” said Branyon, shaking his head ominously. “We ain't Dagoes or Pollacks. We're American mechanics, and we know our rights.”

“You're a sneak, Branyon. What's he ever done to you?”

“Oh, you go to hell!” ruffling up his shirt-sleeves.

“Well, sir,” said McClintock, his gray eyes flashing, “you needn't be so particular about the old man's record. You know as much about the inside of a prison as he does.”

“You're a damn liar!” Nevertheless McClintock spoke only the truth. At Branyon's last word he smashed his fist into the middle of the carpenter's sour visage with a heavy, sickening thud. No man called him a liar and got away with it.

“Gee!” gasped the closely attentive but critical Clarence. “What a soaker!” Branyon fell up against the side of the building near which they were standing. Otherwise he would have gone his length upon the ground, and the hands rushed in between the two men.

Stokes and Bentick dragged their friend away by main strength. The affair had gone far enough. They didn't want a fight.

McClintock marched into the office, crossed to the water-cooler, and filled himself a tumbler; then he turned an unruffled front on Oakley.

“I guess we'd better chuck those fellows—fire 'em out bodily, the impudent cusses! What do you say, Mr. Oakley?”

But Dan was too demoralized to consider or even reply to this. He was feeling a burning sense of shame and disgrace. The whole town must know his father's history, or some garbled version of it. Worse still, Constance Emory must know. The pride of his respectability was gone from him. He felt that he had cheated the world of a place to which he had no right, and now he was found out. He could not face Kerr, nor Holt, nor McClintock. But this was only temporary. He couldn't stand among his ruins. Men survive disgrace and outlive shame just as they outlive sorrow and suffering. Nothing ever stops. Then he recognized that, since his secret had been wrested from him, there was no longer discovery to fear. A sense of freedom and relief came when he realized this. The worst had happened, and he could still go on. How the men had learned about his father he could not understand, but instinct told him he had Ryder to thank. Following up the clew Kenyon had given him, he had carefully looked into Roger Oakley's record, a matter that simply involved a little correspondence.

He had told Branyon and Stokes only what he saw fit, and had pledged himself to support the men in whatever action they took. He would drive Oakley out of Antioch. That was one of his motives; he was also bent on cultivating as great a measure of personal popularity as he could. It would be useful to Kenyon, and so advantageous to himself. The Congressman had large ambitions. If he brought his campaign to a successful issue it would make him a power in the State. Counting in this victory, Ryder had mapped out his own career. Kenyon had force and courage, but his judgment and tact were only of a sort. Ryder aspired to supply the necessary brains for his complete success. Needless to say, Kenyon knew nothing of these benevolent intentions on the part of his friend. He could not possibly have believed that he required anything but votes.

Oakley turned to Clarence.

“Run into the carpenter-shop, and see if you can find my father. If he is there, ask him to come here to me at once.”

The boy was absent only a few moments. Roger Oakley had taken off his work clothes and had gone up-town before the men left the shop. He had not returned.

Dan closed his desk and put on his hat, “I am going to the hotel,” he said to Kerr. “If anybody wants to see me you can tell them I'll be back this afternoon.”

“Very well, Mr. Oakley.” The treasurer was wondering what would be his superior's action. Would he resign and leave Antioch, or would he try and stick it out?

Before he left the room, Dan said to McClintock:

“I hope you won't have any further trouble, Milt Better keep an eye on that fellow Branyon.”

McClintock laughed shortly, but made no answer, and for the rest of the morning Clarence dogged his steps in the hope that the quarrel would be continued under more favorable circumstances. In this he was disappointed. Branyon had been induced to go home for repairs, and had left the yards immediately after the trouble occurred, with a wet handkerchief held gingerly to a mashed and bloody nose. His fellows had not shown the sympathy he felt they should have shown under the circumstances. They told him he had had enough, and that it was well to stop with that.

Dan hurried up-town to the hotel. He found his father in his room, seated before an open window in his shirt-sleeves, and with his Bible in his lap. He glanced up from the book as his son pushed open the door.

“Well, Dannie?” he said, and his tones were mild, meditative, and inquiring.

“I was looking for you, father. They told me you'd come up-town.”

“So I did; as soon as I heard there was going to be trouble over my working in the shops I left.”

“Did they say anything to you?”

“Not a word, Dannie, but I knew what was coming, and quit work.”

“You shouldn't have done it, daddy,” said Dan, seating himself on the edge of the bed near the old man. “I can't let them say who shall work in the shops and who not. The whole business was trumped up out of revenge for the cut. They want to get even with me for that, you see. If I back down and yield this point, there is no telling what they'll ask next—probably that the wages be restored to the old figure.”

He spoke quite cheerfully, for he saw his father was cruelly hurt.

“It was all a mistake, Dannie—my coming to you, I mean,” Roger Oakley said, shutting the book reverently and laying it to one side. “The world's a small place, after all, and we should have known we couldn't keep our secret. It's right I should bear my own cross, but it's not your sin, and now it presses hardest on you. I'm sorry, Dannie—” and his voice shook with the emotion he was striving to hide.

“No, no, father. To have you here has been a great happiness to me.”

“Has it, Dannie? has it really?” with a quick smile. “I am glad you can say so, for it's been a great happiness to me—greater than I deserved,” and he laid a big hand caressingly on his son's.

“We must go ahead, daddy, as if nothing had happened. If we let this hurt us, we'll end by losing all our courage.”

“It's been a knock-out blow for me, Dannie,” with a wistful sadness, “and I've got to go away. It's best for you I should. I've gone in one direction and you've gone another. You can't reconcile opposites. I've been thinking of this a good deal. You're young, and got your life ahead of you, and you'll do big things before you're done, and people will forget I can't drag you down just because I happen to be your father and love you. Why, I'm of a different class even, but I can't go on. I'm just as I am, and I can't change myself.”

“Why, bless your heart, daddy,” cried Dan, “I wouldn't have you changed. You're talking nonsense. I won't let you go away.”

“But the girl, Dannie, the girl—the doctor's daughter! You see I hear a lot of gossip in the shop, and even if you haven't told me, I know.”

“We may as well count that at an end,” said Dan, quietly.

“Do you think of leaving here?”

“No. If I began by running, I'd be running all the rest of my life. I shall remain until I've accomplished everything I've set out to do, if it takes ten years.”

“And what about Miss Emory, Dannie? If you are going to stay, why is that at an end?”

“I dare say she'll marry Mr. Ryder. Anyhow, she won't marry me.”

“But I thought you cared for her?”

“I do, daddy.”

“Then why do you give up? You're as good as he is any day.”

“I'm not her kind, that's all. It has nothing to do with this. It would have been the same, anyhow. I'm not her kind.”

Roger Oakley turned this over slowly in his mind. It was most astonishing. He couldn't grasp it.

“Do you mean she thinks she is better than you are?” he asked, curiously.

“Something of that sort, I suppose,” dryly. “I want you to come back into the shops, father.”

“I can't do it, Dannie. I'm sorry if you wish it, but it's impossible. I want to keep out of sight. Back East, when they pardoned me, every one knew, and I didn't seem to mind, but here it's not the same. I can't face it. It may be cowardly, but I can't.”