But the other made no move. “I reckon if they’re follerin’ you, they’ve got some reason for it. Have you been makin’ trouble in the camps?” He asked this question with sudden force, as if it had occurred to him that it might be his duty to lock up Hal.
“No,” said Hal, speaking as bravely as he could—“no indeed, I haven’t been making trouble. I’ve only been demanding my rights.”
“How do I know what you been doin’?”
The young miner was willing to explain, but the other cut him short. “You behave yourself while you’re in this town, young feller, d’you see? If you do, nobody’ll bother you.”
“But,” said Hal, “they’ve already threatened to bother me.”
“What did they say?”
“They said something might happen to me on a dark night.”
“Well, so it might—you might fall down and hit your nose.”
The Chief was pleased with this wit, but only for a moment. “Understand, young feller, we’ll give you your rights in this town, but we got no love for agitators, and we don’t pretend to have. See?”
“You call a man an agitator when he demands his legal rights?”
“I ain’t got time to argue with you, young feller. It’s no easy matter keepin’ order in coal-camps, and I ain’t going to meddle in the business. I reckon the company detectives has got as good a right in this town as you.”
There was a pause. Hal saw that there was nothing to be gained by further discussion with the Chief. It was his first glimpse of the American policeman as he appears to the labouring man in revolt, and he found it an illuminating experience. There was dynamite in his heart as he turned and went out to the street; nor was the amount of the explosive diminished by the mocking grins which he noted upon the faces of Pete Hanun and the other two husky-looking personages.
VIII
Hal judged that he had now exhausted his legal resources in Pedro; the Chief of Police had not suggested anyone else he might call upon, so there seemed nothing he could do but go back to MacKellar’s and await the hour of the night train to Western City. He started to give his guardians another run, by way of working off at least a part of his own temper; but he found that they had anticipated this difficulty. An automobile came up and the three of them stepped in. Not to be outdone, Hal engaged a hack, and so the expedition returned in pomp to MacKellar’s.
Hal found the old cripple in a state of perturbation. All that afternoon his telephone had been ringing; one person after another had warned him—some pleading with him, some abusing him. It was evident that among them were people who had a hold on the old man; but he was undaunted, and would not hear of Hal’s going to stay at the hotel until train-time.
Then Keating returned, with an exciting tale to tell. Schulman, general manager of the “G.F.C.,” had been sending out messengers to hunt for him, and finally had got him in his office, arguing and pleading, cajoling and denouncing him by turns. He had got Cartwright on the telephone, and the North Valley superintendent had laboured to convince Keating that he had done the company a wrong. Cartwright had told a story about Hal’s efforts to hold up the company for money. “Incidentally,” said Keating, “he added the charge that you had seduced a girl in his camp.”
Hal stared at his friend. “Seduced a girl!” he exclaimed.
“That’s what he said; a redheaded Irish girl.”
“Well, damn his soul!”
There followed a silence, broken by a laugh from Billy. “Don’t glare at me like that. I didn’t say it!”
But Hal continued to glare, nevertheless. “The dirty little skunk!”
“Take it easy, sonny,” said the fat man, soothingly. “It’s quite the usual thing, to drag in a woman. It’s so easy—for of course there always is a woman. There’s one in this case, I suppose?”
“There’s a perfectly decent girl.”
“But you’ve been friendly with her? You’ve been walking around where people can see you?”
“Yes.”
“So you see, they’ve got you. There’s nothing you can do about a thing of that sort.”
“You wait and see!” Hal burst out.
The other gazed curiously at the angry young miner. “What’ll you do? Beat him up some night?”
But the young miner did not answer. “You say he described the girl?”
“He was kind enough to say she was a redheaded beauty, and with no one to protect her but a drunken father. I could understand that must have made it pretty hard for her, in one of these coal-camps.” There was a pause. “But see here,” said the reporter, “you’ll only do the girl harm by making a row. Nobody believes that women in coal-camps have any virtue. God knows, I don’t see how they do have, considering the sort of men who run the camps, and the power they have.”
“Mr. Keating,” said Hal, “did you believe what Cartwright told you?”
Keating had started to light a cigar. He stopped in the middle, and his eyes met Hal’s. “My dear boy,” said he, “I didn’t consider it my business to have an opinion.”
“But what did you say to Cartwright?”
“Ah! That’s another matter. I said that I’d been a newspaper man for a good many years, and I knew his game.”
“Thank you for that,” said Hal. “You may be interested to know there isn’t any truth in the story.”
“Glad to hear it,” said the other. “I believe you.”
“Also you may be interested to know that I shan’t drop the matter until I’ve made Cartwright take it back.”
“Well, you’re an enterprising cuss!” laughed the reporter. “Haven’t you got enough on your hands, with all the men you’re going to get out of the mine?”
IX
Billy Keating went out again, saying that he knew a man who might be willing to talk to him on the
