ON Thursday the Herald published its report of the trouble at the shops. Oakley had looked forward to the paper's appearance with considerable eagerness. He hoped to glean from it some idea of the tactics the men would adopt, and in this he was not disappointed. Ryder served up his sensation, which was still a sensation, in spite of the fact that it was common property and two days old before it was accorded the dignity of type and ink, in his most impressive style:

“The situation at the car-shops has assumed a serious phase, and a strike is imminent. Matters came to a focus day before yesterday, and may now be said to have reached an acute stage. It is expected that the carpenters—of whom quite a number are employed on repair work—will be the first to go out unless certain demands which they are to make to-day are promptly acceded to by General Cornish's local representative.

“Both sides maintain the strictest secrecy, but from reliable sources the Herald gathers that the men will insist upon Mr. Branyon being taken back by the company.

“Another grievance of the men, and one in which they should have the sympathy of the entire community, is their objection to working with the manager's father, who came here recently from the East and has since been employed in the shops. It has been learned that he is an ex-convict who was sentenced for a long term of imprisonment in June, 1875, for the murder of Thomas Sharp, at Burton, Massachusetts.

“He was only recently set at liberty, and the men are natural-ly incensed and indignant at having to work with him. Still another grievance is the new schedule of wages.

“A committee representing every department in the shops and possessing the fullest authority, met last night at the Odd Fellows' Hall on South Main Street, but their deliberations were secret. A well-authenticated rumor has it, however, that the most complete harmony prevailed, and that the employÉs are pledged to drastic measures unless they get fair treatment from the company.”

Ryder tacked a moral to this, and the moral was that labor required a champion to protect it from the soulless greed and grinding tyranny of the great corporations which had sprung into existence under the fostering wing of corrupt legislation. Of course “the Picturesque Statesman from Old Hanover” was the Hercules who was prepared to right these wrongs of honest industry, and to curb the power of Cornish, whose vampire lusts fattened on the sweat of the toiler, and especially the toiler at Antioch.

A copy of the paper was evidently sent the “Picturesque Statesman,” who had just commenced his canvass, for in its very next issue the Herald was able to print a telegram in which he “heartily endorsed the sentiments embodied in the Herald's ringing editorial on the situation at Antioch,” and declared himself a unit with his fellow-citizens of whatever party in their heroic struggle for a fair day's wage for a fair day's work. He also expressed himself as honored by their confidence, as, indeed, he might well have been.

Dan digested the Herald's report along with his breakfast. Half an hour later, when he reached the office, he found McClintock waiting for him.

“The men want to see you, Mr. Oakley. They were going to send their committee in here, but I told 'em you'd come out to them.”

“All right. It's just as well you did.” And Oakley followed him from the office.

“Did you read the Herald's yap this morning?” Inquired the master-mechanic.

“Yes,” said Dan, “I did. It was rather funny, Wasn't it?”

“The town will be owing Ryder a coat of tar and feathers presently. He'll make these fools think they've got a reason to be sore on the company.”

The men were clustered about the great open door of the works in their shirt-sleeves. From behind them, in the silence and the shadow, came the pleasant, droning sound of machinery, like the humming of a million bees. There was something dogged and reckless in the very way they stood around, with folded arms, or slouched nervously to and fro.

Dan singled out Bentick and Joe Stokes, and three or four others, as the committee, and made straight towards them.

“Well, men, what do you want?” he asked, briskly.

“We represent every department in the shops, sir,” said Bentick, civilly, “and we consider Branyon's discharge as unjust. We want him taken back.”

“And suppose I won't take him back, what are you going to do about it—eh?” asked Dan, good-naturedly, and, not waiting for a reply, with oldtime deftness he swung himself up into an empty flat-car which stood close at hand and faced his assembled workmen.

“You know why Branyon was dismissed. It was a business none of you have much reason to be proud of, but I am willing to let him come back on condition he first offers an apology to McClintock and to me. Unless he does he can never set his foot inside these doors again while I remain here. I agree to this, because I don't wish to make him a scapegoat for the rest of you, and I don't wish those dependent on him to suffer.”

He avoided looking in McClintock's direction. He felt, rather than saw, that the latter was shaking his head in strong disapproval of his course. The committee and the men exchanged grins. The boss was weakening. They had scored twice. First against Roger Oakley, and now for Branyon.

“I guess Branyon would as lief be excused from making an apology, if it's all the same to Milt,” said Bentick, less civilly than before, and there was a ripple of smothered laughter from the crowd.

Dan set his lips, and said, sternly but quietly, '“That's for him to decide.”

“Well, we'll tell him what you say, and if he's ready to eat humble-pie there won't be no kick coming from us,” remarked Bentick, impartially.

“Is this all?” asked Oakley.

“No, we can't see the cut.” And a murmur of approval came from the men.

Dan looked out over the crowd. Why couldn't they see that the final victory was in his hands? “Be guided by me,” he said, earnestly, “and take my word for it; the cut is necessary. I'll meet you half-way in the Branyon matter; let it go at that.”

“We want our old wages,” insisted Bentick, doggedly.

“It is out of the question; the shops are running behind; they are not earning any money, they never have, and it's as much to your interests as mine, or General Cornish's, to do your full part in making them profitable.”

He pleaded with unmistakable sincerity in his tones, and now he looked at McClintock, who nodded his head. This was the stiff talk he liked to hear, and had expected from Oakley.

The committee turned to the men, and the men sullenly shook their heads. Some one whispered, “He'll knuckle. He's got to. We'll make him.” Dan caught the sense of what was said, if not the words.

“Wages can't go back until the business in the shops warrants it. If you will continue to work under the present arrangement, good and well. If not, I see no way to meet your demands. You will have to strike. That, however, is an alternative I trust you will carefully weigh before you commit yourselves. Once the shops are closed it will not be policy to open them until fall, perhaps not until the first of the year. But if you can afford to lie idle all summer, it's your own affair. That's exactly what it means if you strike.”

He jumped down from the car, and would have left them then and there, but Bentick stepped in front of him. “Can't we talk it over, Mr. Oakley?”

“There is nothing to talk over, Bentick. Settle it among yourselves.” And he marched off up the tracks, with McClintock following in his wake and commending the stand he had taken.

The first emotion of the men was one of profound and depressing surprise at the abruptness with, which Oakley had terminated the interview, and his evident willingness to close the shops, a move they had not counted on. It dashed their courage.

“We'll call his bluff,” cried Bentick, and the men gave a faint cheer. They were not so sure it was a bluff, after all. It looked real enough.

There were those who thought, with a guilty pang, of wives and children at home, and no payday—the fortnightly haven of rest towards which, they lived. And there were the customarily reckless, souls, who thirsted for excitement at any price, and who were willing to see the trouble to a finish. These ruled, as they usually do. Not a man returned to work. Instead, they hung about the yards and canvassed the situation. Finally the theory was advanced that, if the shops were closed, it would serve to bring down Cornish's wrath on Oakley, and probably result in his immediate dismissal. This theory found instant favor, and straightway became a conviction with the majority.

At length all agreed to strike, and the whistle in the shops was set shrieking its dismal protest. The men swarmed into the building, where each got together his kit of tools. They were quite jolly now, and laughed and jested a good deal. Presently they were streaming off up-town, with their coats over their arms, and the strike was on.

An unusual stillness fell on the yards and in the shops. The belts, as they swept on and on in endless revolutions, cut this stillness with a sharp, incisive hiss. The machinery seemed to hammer at it, as if to beat out some lasting echo. Then, gradually, the volume of sound lessened. It mumbled to a dotage of decreasing force, and then everything stopped with a sudden jar. The shops had shut down.

McClintock came from the office and entered the works, pulling the big doors to after him. He wanted to see that all was made snug. He cursed loudly as he strode through the deserted building. It was the first time since he had been with the road that the shops had been closed, and it affected him strangely.

The place held a dreadful, ghostly inertness. The belts and shafting, with its innumerable cogs and connections, reached out like the heavy-knuckled tentacles of some great, lifeless monster. The sunlight stole through the broken, cobwebbed windows, to fall on heaps of rusty iron and heaps of dirty shavings.

In the engine-room he discovered Smith Roberts and his assistant, Joe Webber, banking the fires, preparatory to leaving. They were the only men about the place. Roberts closed a furnace-door with a bang, threw down his shovel, and drew a grimy arm across his forehead.

“Did you ever see such a lot of lunkheads, Milt? I'll bet they'll be kicking themselves good and hard before they get to the wind-up of this.”

McClintock looked with singular affection at the swelling girths of iron which held the panting lungs of the monster the men had doomed to silence, and swore his most elaborate oath.

“No, I never did, Smith. You'd think they had money to burn the way they chucked their job.”

“When do you suppose I'll get a chance to build steam again?”

“Oakley says we won't start up before the first of September.”