THE first weeks of the strike slipped by without excitement. Harvest time came and went. A rainless August browned the earth and seared the woods with its heat, but nothing happened to vary the dull monotony. The shops, a sepulchre of sound, stood silent and empty. General Cornish, in the rÔle of the avenger, did not appear on the scene, to Oakley's discomfiture and to the joy of the men. A sullen sadness rested on the town. The women began to develop shrewish tempers and a trying conversational habit, while their husbands squandered their rapidly dwindling means in the saloons. There was large talk and a variety of threats, but no lawlessness.

Simultaneously with the inauguration of the strike, Jeffy reappeared mysteriously. He hinted darkly at foreign travel under singularly favorable auspices, and intimated that he had been sojourning in a community where there was always some one to “throw a few whiskeys” into him when his “coppers got hot,” and where he had “fed his face” three times a day, so bounteous was the charity.

At intervals a rumor was given currency that Oakley was on the verge of starting up with imported labor, and the men, dividing the watches, met each train; but only familiar types, such as the casual commercial traveller with his grips, the farmer from up or down the line, with his inevitable paper parcels, and the stray wayfarer were seen to step from the Huckleberry's battered coaches. Finally it dawned upon the men that Dan was bent on starving them into submission.

Ryder had displayed what, for him, was a most unusual activity. Almost every day he held conferences with the leaders of the strike, and his personal influence went far towards keeping the men in line. Indeed, his part in the whole affair was much more important than was generally recognized.

The political campaign had started, and Kenyon was booked to speak in Antioch. It was understood in advance that he would declare for the strikers, and his coming caused a welcome flutter of excitement.

The statesman arrived on No. 7, and the reception committee met him at the station in two carriages. It included Cap Roberts, the Hon. Jeb Barrows, Ryder, Joe Stokes, and Bentick. The two last were an inspiration of the editor's, and proved a popular success.

The brass-band hired for the occasion discoursed patriotic airs, as Kenyon, in a long linen duster and a limp, wilted collar, presented himself at the door of the smoker. The great man was all blandness and suavity—an oily suavity that oozed and trickled from every pore.

The crowd on the platform gave a faint, unenthusiastic cheer as it caught sight of him. It had been more interested in staring at Bentick and Stokes. They looked so excessively uncomfortable.

Mr. Kenyon climbed down the steps and shook hands with Mr. Ryder. Then, bowing and smiling to the right and left, he crossed the platform, leaning on the editor's arm. At the carriages there were more greetings. Stokes and Bentick were formally presented, and the Congressman mounted to a place beside them, whereat the crowd cheered again, and Stokes and Bentick looked, if possible, more miserable than before. They had a sneaking idea that a show was being made of them. Ryder took his place in the second carriage, with Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows, and the procession moved off up-town to the hotel, preceded by the band playing a lively two-step out of tune, and followed by a troop of bare-legged urchins.

After supper the statesman was serenaded by the band, and a little later the members of the Young Men's Kenyon Club, attired in cotton-flannel uniforms, marched across from the Herald office to escort him to the Rink, where he was to speak. He appeared radiant in a Prince Albert and a shiny tile, and a boutonniÈre, this time leaning on the arm of Mr. Stokes, to the huge disgust of that worthy mechanic, who did not know that a statesman had to lean on somebody's arm. It is hoary tradition, and yet it had a certain significance, too, if it were meant to indicate that Kenyon couldn't keep straight unless he was propped.

A wave of fitful enthusiasm swept the assembled crowd, and Mr. Stokes's youngest son, Samuel, aged six, burst into tears, no one knew why, and was led out of the press by an elder brother, who alternately slapped him and wiped his nose on his cap.

Mr. Kenyon, smiling his unwearied, mirthless smile, seated himself in his carriage. Mr. Ryder, slightly bored and wholly cynical, followed his example. Mr. Stokes and Mr. Bentick, perspiring and abject, and looking for all the world like two criminals, dropped dejectedly into the places assigned them. Only Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows seemed entirely at ease. They were campaign fixtures. The band emitted a harmony-destroying crash, while Mr. Jimmy Smith, the drum-major, performed sundry bewildering passes with his gilt staff. The Young Men's Kenyon Club fell over its own feet into line, and the procession started for the Rink. It was a truly inspiring moment.

As soon as the tail of the procession was clear of the curb, it developed that Clarence and Spide were marshalling a rival demonstration. Six small and exceedingly dirty youngsters, with reeking torches, headed by Clarence and his trusty lieutenant, fell gravely in at the rear of the Kenyon Club. Clarence was leaning on Spide's arm. Pussy Roberts preceded them, giving a highly successful imitation of Mr. Jimmy Smith. He owned the six torches, and it was unsafe to suppress him, but the others spoke disparagingly of his performance as a side-show.

Since an early hour of the evening the people had been gathering at the Rink. It was also the Opera-House, where, during the winter months, an occasional repertory company appeared in “East Lynn,” the “New Magdalen,” or Tom Robertson's “Caste.” The place was two-thirds full at a quarter to eight, when a fleet courier arrived with the gratifying news that the procession was just leaving the square, and that Kenyon was riding with his hat off, and in familiar discourse with Stokes and Bentick.

Presently out of the distance drifted the first strains of the band. A little later Cap. Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows appeared on the make-shift stage from the wings. There was an applausive murmur, for the Hon. Jeb was a popular character. It was said of him that he always carried a map of the United States in tobacco juice on his shirt front. He was bottle-nosed and red faced. No man could truthfully say he had ever seen him drunk, nor had any one ever seen him sober. He shunned extremes. Next, the band filed into the balcony, and was laboriously sweating its way through the national anthem, when Kenyon and Ryder appeared, followed by the wretched Stokes and Bentick. A burst of applause shook the house. When it subsided, the editor stepped to the front of the stage. With words that halted, for the experience was a new one, he introduced the guest of the evening.

It was generally agreed afterwards that it had been a great privilege to hear Kenyon. No one knew exactly what it was all about, but that was a minor consideration. The Congressman was well on towards the end of his speech, and had reached the local situation, which he was handling in what the Herald subsequently described as “a masterly fashion, cool, logical, and convincing,” when Oakley wandered in, and, unobserved, took a seat near the door. He glanced about him glumly. There had been a time when these people had been, in their way, his friends. Now those nearest him even avoided looking in his direction. At last he became conscious that some one far down near the stage, and at the other side of the building, was nodding and smiling at him. It was Dr. Emory. Mrs. Emory and Constance were with him. Dan caught the fine outline of the latter's profile. She was smiling an amused smile. It was her first political meeting, and she was finding it quite as funny as Ryder had said it would be.

Dan listened idly, hearing only a word now and then. At length a sentence roused him. The speaker was advising the men to stand for their rights. He rose hastily, and turned to leave; he had heard enough; but some one cried out, “Here's Oakley,” and instantly every one in the place was staring at him.

Kenyon took a step nearer the foot-lights. Either he misunderstood or else he wished to provoke an argument, for he said, with slippery civility: “I shall be very pleased to listen to Mr. Oakley's side of the question. This is a free country, and I don't deny him or any man the right to express his views. The fact that I am unalterably opposed to the power he represents is no bar to the expression here of his opinion.”

Oakley's face was crimson. He paused irresolutely; he saw the jeer on Ryder's lips, and the desire possessed him to tell these people what fools they were to listen to the cheap, lungy patriotism of the demagogue on the stage.

He rested a hand on the back of the chair in front of him, and leaned forward with an arm extended at the speaker, but his eyes were fixed on Miss Emory's face. She was smiling at him encouragingly, he thought, bidding him to speak.

“This is doubtless your opportunity,” he said, “but I would like to ask what earthly interest you have in Antioch beyond the votes it may give you?”

Kenyon smiled blandly and turned for one fleeting instant to wink at Ryder. “And my reply is this: What about the twenty-million-dollar specimen of American manhood who is dodging around London on the money he's made here in this State—yes, and in this town? He's gone to England to break his way into London society, and, incidentally, to marry his daughter to a title.”

A roar of laughter greeted this sally.

“That may be,” retorted Oakley, hotly, “but Antioch has been getting its share of his money, too. Don't forget that. There's not a store-keeper in this audience whose bank account will not show, in hard American dollars, what General Cornish does for Antioch when Antioch is willing to let him do for it. But, granted that what you have said is true, who can best afford to meet the present situation? General Cornish or these men? On whom does the hardship fall heavier, on them or on him?”

“That was not the spirit which prevailed at Bunker Hill and Lexington! No, thank God! our fathers did not stop to count the cost, and we have our battles to-day just as vital to the cause of humanity; and I, for one, would rather see the strong arm of labor wither in its socket than submit to wrong or injustice!”

Oakley choked down his disgust and moved towards the door. There was applause and one or two cat-calls. Not heeding them, he made his way from the building. He had reached the street when a detaining hand was placed upon his arm. He turned savagely, but it proved to be only Turner Joyce, who stepped to his side, with a cheerful:

“Good-evening, Mr. Oakley. They seem to be having a very gay time in there, don't they?”

“Have you been in?” demanded Oakley, grimly.

“I? Oh, no! I have just been taking a picture home.”

“Well,” said Oakley, “I have just been making a damned fool of myself. I hope that is something you are never guilty of, Mr. Joyce?” Joyce laughed, and tucked his hand through his companion's arm.

“Doesn't every one do that occasionally?” he asked.

Dan shook off his bitterness. Recently he had been seeing a great deal of the little artist and his wife, who were about the only friends he or his father had left in Antioch. They walked on in silence Joyce was too tactful to ask any questions concerning his friend's affairs, so he ventured an impersonal criticism on Kenyon, with the modest diffidence of a man who knows he is going counter to public sentiment.

“Neither Ruth nor I had any curiosity to hear him speak to-night. I heard him when he was here last. It may be my bringing up, but I do like things that are not altogether rotten, and I'm afraid I count him as sort of decayed.” Then he added: “I suppose everybody was at the Rink to-night?”

“The place was packed.”

“It promises to be a lively campaign, I believe, but I take very little interest in politics. My own concerns occupy most of my time. Won't you come in, Mr. Oakley?” for they had reached his gate.

On the little side porch which opened off the kitchen they found Ruth. She rose with a pleased air of animation when she saw who was with her husband. Oakley had lived up to his reputation as a patron of the arts. He had not forgotten, in spite of his anxieties, the promise made Joyce months before, and at that very moment, safely bestowed in Mrs. Joyce's possession, were two formidable-looking strips of heavy pink paper, which guaranteed the passage of the holder to New York and return.

“I hope this confounded strike is not going to interfere with you, Mr. Joyce,” said Oakley, as he seated himself. He had discovered that they liked to talk about their own plans and hopes, and the trip East was the chief of these. Already he had considered it with them from every conceivable point of view.

“It is aggravating, for, of course, if people haven't money they can't very well afford to have pictures painted. But Ruth is managing splendidly. I really don't think it will make any special difference.”

“I am determined Turner shall not miss this opportunity. I think, if it wasn't for me, Mr. Oakley, he'd give up most everything he wants to do, or has set his heart on.”

“He's lucky to have you, then. Most men need looking after.”

“I'm sure I do,” observed the little artist, with commendable meekness. He was keenly alive to his own shortcomings. “I'd never get any sort of prices for my work if she didn't take a hand in the bargaining.”

“Some one has to be mercenary,” said Ruth, apologetically. “It's all very well to go around with your head in the clouds, but it don't pay.”

“No, it don't pay,” agreed Dan.

There was a long pause, which a cricket improved to make itself heard above the sweep of the night wind through the tree-tops. Then Ruth said: “I saw Miss Emory to-day. She asked about you.”

Mrs. Joyce and her husband had taken a passionate interest in Oakley's love affair, and divined the utter wreck of his hopes.

“Did she? I saw her at the Rink, too, but of course not to speak with.”

Turner Joyce trod gently but encouragingly on his wife's foot. He felt that Oakley would be none the worse for a little cheer, and he had unbounded faith in his wife's delicacy and tact. She was just the person for such a message.

“She seemed—that is, I gathered from what she said, and it wasn't so much what she said as what she didn't say—”

Dan laughed outright, and Joyce joined in with a panic-stricken chuckle. Ruth was making as bad a botch of the business as he could have made.

“I am not at all sensitive,” said Dan, with sudden candor. “I have admired her immensely; I do still, for the matter of that.”

“Then why don't you go there?”

“I can't, Mrs. Joyce. You know why.”

“But I think she looks at it differently now.”

Oakley shook his head. “No, she doesn't. There's just one way she can look at it.”

“Women are always changing their minds,” persisted Ruth. It occurred to her that Constance had been at her worst in her relation with Oakley. If she cared a scrap for him, why hadn't she stood by him when he needed it most? The little artist blinked tenderly at his wife. He was lost in admiration at her courage. He would not have dared to give their friend this comfort.

The conversation languished. They heard the strains of the band when the meeting at the Rink broke up, and the voices of the people on the street, and then there was silence again.