Since the beginning of the strike, the engineers’ headquarters had remained open continually, and, in addition to the informal meetings during the day, a formal meeting was held every evening to discuss the situation. These meetings, which the firemen also attended, had started out peacefully enough, but two factions had soon developed, one led by Simpson, the special delegate, and the other by Rafe Bassett. The feeling between these factions had steadily increased in bitterness, and had culminated the evening before, as Stanley had reported to Allan, in an assault by Bassett on one of the oldest engineers in the road’s employ.

Simpson, early recognizing Bassett’s violent and quarrelsome disposition, had foreseen this development, and had lost no opportunity to strengthen himself with the conservative element and to gain its confidence. He had worked wisely and well, and the consequence was that Bassett’s following had melted away so rapidly that Simpson at last felt himself strong enough to administer a stinging warning to the offender.

In this victory, Simpson had been greatly aided by the course of events. Many of the engineers had opposed the strike at the outset, but had been over-borne by the younger element; as the days passed, more and more, under Simpson’s careful guidance, had come to acknowledge that the strike was a mistake and that public opinion was turning against them. The older men were especially outspoken in their expressions of regret, and while many of the younger men kept up a semblance of contentment, it was plainly to be seen that they, too, were growing uneasy. Almost the only one who was still openly pleased with the strike was Bassett himself.

The discontent with the situation had found expression on the floor of the lodge the night before, when Jim Adams had suggested that a committee be appointed to wait upon the officials of the road, and see whether an agreement to end the strike could not be reached. It was this suggestion which had led to Bassett’s assault and to the subsequent warning and reprimand which Simpson had given him.

In consequence of all this, everyone felt that affairs were reaching a crisis, and the lodge room was even more crowded than usual, this evening, as the hour for the meeting approached. The men gathered in little groups and discussed in low tones the scene of the evening before. It was evident that a new spirit had come over the men, and more than one stated that it was his intention to approve the suggestion made by Adams the night before, and that he would not allow Rafe Bassett to roar him down. But none of them cared to provoke unnecessarily Bassett’s open enmity, for he was universally recognized as a dangerous man, and when, at last, he swaggered into the room, plainly under the influence of liquor, an uneasy silence fell upon the crowd.

The meeting was called to order, and Simpson arose to make a few announcements. He waited until Bassett, evidently spoiling for a fight, swaggered noisily to a chair near the stage.

“There is no change in the situation,” he began. “The strike is progressing quietly—”

“Too blame quietly,” Bassett broke in. “You’d think we was a lot o’ Sunday school kids by the way we set around with our hands folded, actin’ like sugar wouldn’t melt in our—”

“Order! Order!” called the chairman, rapping with his gavel, and Bassett subsided, growling, into his chair.

“As I was saying,” Simpson proceeded calmly, “the strike is progressing quietly. One good piece of news I have—the fellows who tried to set fire to the stock-yards have been arrested and turned out to be a couple of saloon bums, who never worked on a railroad, or anywhere else, and of course never belonged to the brotherhood. I’m mighty glad that this effectually clears the brotherhood of any suspicion of being implicated in the affair.”

“How do you know they’re the ones?” Bassett demanded.

“I understand they have confessed.”

“Been given the third degree, I guess. Who’s defendin’ ’em?”

“I don’t know, nor care. The brotherhood certainly won’t defend them. If they haven’t any money, counsel for them will be appointed by the court, I suppose, in the usual way.”

“And they’ll be railroaded to the pen, also in the usual way,” sneered Bassett. “It makes me sick the way we go back on our friends.”

“They’re not our friends,” said Simpson, sharply. “They’re the worst enemies we’ve got. We’re in no way responsible for them nor indebted to them.”

“Ain’t we?” and Bassett was on his feet again. “Where’d they git the whiskey they tanked up on afore they tackled the job? Who give it to them?”

“I don’t know—some saloon-keeper, probably.”

“No, it wasn’t no saloon-keeper,” cried Bassett, “an’ you know it. What would a saloon-keeper be givin’ away good whiskey fer? An’ more’n that, where’d they git the twenty dollars that was found on each of ’em? Did a saloon-keeper give ’em that, too?”

“Since you seem to know so much about it,” said Simpson, with ominous calmness, “suppose you tell us.”

“All right, I will tell you!” yelled Bassett, his self-control suddenly slipping from him. “Though I won’t be tellin’ you no news, for all your standin’ there lookin’ so goody-good. It’s sneaks like you an’ Jim Adams, what want t’ go crawlin’ back lickin’ the boots of the railroad, that disgusts me with the brotherhood.”

“Sneak yourself!” cried Adams, jumping to his feet and starting for Bassett, but two of his friends seized him and held him back.

“Let him come on!” shouted Bassett, fairly purple. “I’ll fix him this time—I’ve been wantin’ to fer years. Let him come on!”

But Adams was pulled panting back into his chair.

“Did you hear what he said?” he demanded of those about him. “Did you hear what he said? He as good as admitted he tried to do fer me that night at Jones Run bridge!”

But they weren’t listening to him; they were listening to Bassett, who, fairly livid with rage, had turned back to Simpson.

“Yes,” he shouted, “goody-goody sneaks like you an’ Adams—standin’ there lettin’ on you don’t know who it was put them poor devils up to firin’ the stock-yards!”

“I’ve already asked you to tell me,” repeated Simpson, quietly.

“It was two members of this lodge!” yelled Bassett, quite beside himself. “It was two members of this lodge what give the whiskey an’ the cash, an’ they knowed what they was doin’, too!”

The place was in an uproar; angry voices demanded the names of the offending members, denials were shouted across the room, fists were shaken; but the chairman finally succeeded in beating down the din until Simpson’s voice could be heard again. His face was flushed and there was a dangerous light in his eyes as he turned to Bassett, who had subsided into his seat again.

“Mr. Bassett,” he began, “you have said too much not to say more. I demand the names of those two men.”

But Bassett had already said more than he had intended to say, and heartily regretted his hasty tongue.

“I ain’t no tale-bearer,” he protested. “I know what I know; but it don’t go no furder.”

“You refuse to tell?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then,” said Simpson, firmly, “by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Grand Lodge, I suspend you from membership in the brotherhood until a hearing of this case can be had.”

“What!” yelled Bassett, on his feet again, his face purple. “Suspend me! Why, you—you snake! Boys,” he shouted, “do you stand fer this?” It’s Nixon over ag’in! Oh, they’re all rotten! I tell you those fellers layin’ in jail down at Cincinnati ought t’ be looked after by the brotherhood—I tell you why—I speak as a man to men—I don’t believe in lettin’ some corporation-owned Hamilton County judge railroad them to the pen. It ain’t right, an’ every man of you knows it ain’t right. But I ain’t no informer—I won’t say nothin’ more—an’ because I won’t, this here whipper-snapper from headquarters says he’ll suspend me. Boys, I tell you the Grand Lodge is rotten through an’ through. It’s owned by the railroads. It’s time we turned the scoundrels out!”

It was a good talk, effectively delivered, and it carried some of the younger men with it, as was shown by the subdued growl which ran around the room. Not so very long before, it would have carried the whole lodge with it, but sentiment had changed. Simpson, who had gone through just such scenes before, never turned a hair.

“And I want to say to you,” he said, “that the Grand Lodge is devoted to you, and you know it—deep down in your hearts, you know it. Yes, and I want to add that I think we made a mistake in consenting to this strike, and in my opinion the sooner we call it off the better. As to those fellows at Cincinnati, so far from defending them, the brotherhood has promised to pay, and will pay, a reward of five hundred dollars upon their conviction, and it will pay the same reward for the conviction of the scoundrel who tried to dynamite the bridge at Parkersburg.

“As for this man,” he added, pointing to Bassett, “he is no longer a member of the brotherhood and will not be until he is reinstated—and if that ever happens, which I don’t believe, it will certainly be against my advice. As this lodge has further business to transact, I would therefore ask Mr. Bassett to retire.”

“Retire yourself!” shouted Bassett, now thoroughly enraged. “If you want me out, you’ll have to put me out, an’ I’d like to see you do it!”

“Oh, I’ll do it, if necessary,” retorted Simpson. “But before you go, I want to say one thing to you for all these men to hear. It’s blackguards like you who bring discredit upon the brotherhood and upon unionism generally—blackguards who are always trying to get something they don’t deserve, and to evade something they do deserve. It’s blackguards like you who think the union cause is helped by violence, and who want every strike to be accompanied by violence. Now, apart from any consideration of right or wrong—”

“What is this, a sermon?” demanded Bassett, looking around with a raucous laugh—but it found no echo.

“Yes,” retorted Simpson; “and a sermon you’ll do well to listen to. Apart from any consideration of right or wrong, nothing hurts our cause like violence—I think we’ve found that out—and the fellow who advocates violence or assists in it is an enemy and not a friend. And I haven’t the slightest doubt,” he added, wheeling upon Bassett, “that it was this fellow here who was responsible for that fire at the stock-yards.”

Bassett, his face white and drawn with passion, could only sputter inarticulately for a moment. Then, by a mighty effort, he regained control of himself.

“You’re pipin’ a different tune,” he sneered, “from what you did when you first come down here. Why? Have you been seen, like Nixon was? Have you got a wad of railroad money in your pocket?”

“Sergeant-at-arms,” called Simpson, “this fellow is not a member of this lodge. Remove him, so that the meeting can proceed.”

Then Simpson sat down and awaited the event with serene confidence. For, as has been stated, he had been in just such a position more than once before, and he had planned carefully to meet this crisis. The sergeant-at-arms, instructed beforehand in his duties, summoned two assistants and advanced upon Bassett. For a moment, it was evident that that individual meditated resistance; then, as he sized up the three stalwart men confronting him, he realized the futility of it.

“All right,” he said; “I’ll go. But don’t put your hands on me—I won’t stand that. An’ I just want to say one thing: you’ll all of you regret this night’s work.”

And catching up his overcoat, he followed the sergeant-at-arms to the door, which closed after him a moment later.

The night’s experience had sobered him, but nevertheless he reeled slightly as he went down the stairs—not with intoxication, but with a kind of vertigo of rage. He paused at the foot of the stairs to recover himself.

“They framed it up on me!” he muttered to himself. “The hounds! To think of their framin’ it up on me!”

And he got out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead with shaking hand. Then, entering the saloon on the ground floor of the building, he asked for two quart bottles of whiskey.

The bartender, an old acquaintance, ventured to protest.

“Look here, Rafe,” he said, “you’re goin’ it too strong. Better let up a little, old man.”

“Oh, this ain’t fer me,” answered Bassett, laughing grimly. “I’m givin’ a little blow-out to-night. This is fer the company,” and putting a bottle in each coat-pocket, he hurried from the place.

The bartender gazed after him speculatively, for there was a strangeness in his manner, a sort of menace, as of a man who has thrown down the gauntlet to society, regardless of the consequences, but other customers demanded attention, and the bartender soon forgot all about the incident. Could he have followed Bassett, he would have been more and more surprised; for the latter’s path did not lead him home, nor to any place suggestive of a social function. Instead, he turned down the nearest alley, came out upon the railroad track and followed it toward the river. Once he passed a track-walker, but the latter did not recognize the dark figure apparently hurrying toward home.

The road ran past back yards, from which an occasional dog saluted him, crossed a street at an angle, skirted a row of tumble-down brick buildings, and then emerged upon the river bank, which it skirted for perhaps half a mile. Upon this bank, in the days when municipal sanitation was not what it now is, a number of slaughter-houses had been built, because of the convenience of running their refuse into the river. This had been stopped some years before, and the buildings, already decrepit and decayed, had fallen into a still more disreputable condition.

A high board fence surrounded the little stretch of ground in front of them, and before this Bassett paused, groped an instant, pulled aside a loose board and slipped through. He let the board slide into place behind him, crossed the dirty yard, and, producing a key from his pocket, applied it to the lock of the first door he came to. An instant later, he had opened the door and entered.

An odour incredibly foul and overpowering greeted him, and he paused to catch his breath, as it were. Then, groping his way forward along the wall, he came to another door, which he opened. Carefully closing it behind him, he struck a match. Its glow revealed a black pit yawning before him, into which plunged a steep and narrow stair. On a ledge at the top was a candle-end, and lighting this and holding it before him, Bassett descended the stair, which creaked and groaned ominously under his weight. At the bottom he blew out his candle and placed it carefully on the lowest step.

He could hear the ripple of the river close at hand, but no other sound, for he was at the bottom of the shaft which led to the water’s edge. He apparently knew the place well, for he felt his way forward until his hands touched a board partition. Upon this he rapped sharply three times and then, after an interval, a fourth.

Instantly there was a sharp click and a little door swung open, disclosing a man holding a candle above his head and peering out into the darkness—a little, shrivelled man, with livid, pock-marked face and venomous eyes.

“All right, Hummel,” said Bassett, and stepped inside and drew the door shut after him.