“We’ll not go back in them mines till they’re safe!” shouted Wauchope. “Let them sprinkle them—or I’m done with the whole business.”
“And let ’em give us our weights!” cried another. “We’ll have a check-weighman, and we’ll get what we earn!”
So again came the cry, “Joe Smith! Give us a speech, Joe! Soak it to ’em! You’re the boy!”
Hal stood helpless, dismayed. He had counted his fight won—and here was another beginning! The men were looking to him, calling upon him as the boldest of the rebels. Only a few of them knew about the sudden change in his fortunes.
Even while he hesitated, the line of battle had swept past him; the Englishman, Wauchope, sprang upon the steps and began to address the throng. He was one of the bowed and stunted men, but in this emergency he developed sudden lung-power. Hal listened in astonishment; this silent and dull-looking fellow was the last he would have picked for a fighter. Tom Olson had sounded him out, and reported that he would hear nothing, so they had dismissed him from mind. And here he was, shouting terrible defiance!
“They’re a set of robbers and murderers! They rob us everywhere we turn! For my part, I’ve had enough of it! Have you?”
There was a roar from everyone within reach of his voice. They had all had enough.
“All right, then—we’ll fight them!”
“Hurrah! Hurrah! We’ll have our rights!”
Jeff Cotton came up on the run, with “Bud” Adams and two or three of the gunmen at his heels. The crowd turned upon them, the men on the outskirts clenching their fists, showing their teeth like angry dogs. Cotton’s face was red with rage, but he saw that he had a serious matter in hand; he turned and went for more help—and the mob roared with delight. Already they had begun their fight! Already they had won their first victory!
III
The crowd moved down the street, shouting and cursing as it went. Someone started to sing the “Marseillaise,” and others took it up, and the words mounted to a frenzy:
“To arms! To arms, ye brave!
March on, march on, all hearts resolved
On victory or death!”
There were the oppressed of many nations in this crowd; they sang in a score of languages, but it was the same song. They would sing a few bars, and the yells of others would drown them out. “March on! March on! All hearts resolved!” Some rushed away in different directions to spread the news, and very soon the whole population of the village was on the spot; the men waving their caps, the women lifting up their hands and shrieking—or standing terrified, realising that babies could not be fed upon revolutionary singing.
Tim Rafferty was raised up on the shoulders of the crowd and made to tell his story once more. While he was telling it, his old mother came running, and her shrieks rang above the clamour: “Tim! Tim! Come down from there! What’s the matter wid ye?” She was twisting her hands together in an agony of fright; seeing Hal, she rushed up to him. “Get him out of there, Joe! Sure, the lad’s gone crazy! They’ll turn us out of the camp, they’ll give us nothin’ at all—and what’ll become of us? Mother of God, what’s the matter with the b’y?” She called to Tim again; but Tim paid no attention, if he heard her. Tim was on the march to Versailles!
Someone shouted that they would go to the hospital to protect the injured men from the “damned lawyers.” Here was something definite, and the crowd moved in that direction, Hal following with the stragglers, the women and children, and the less bold among the men. He noticed some of the clerks and salaried employees of the company; presently he saw Jeff Cotton again, and heard him ordering these men to the office to get revolvers.
“Big Jack” David came along with Jerry Minetti, and Hal drew back to consult with them. Jerry was on fire. It had come—the revolt he had been looking forward to for years! Why were they not making speeches, getting control of the men and organising them?
Jack David voiced uncertainty. They had to consider if this outburst could mean anything permanent.
Jerry answered that it would mean what they chose to make it mean. If they took charge, they could guide the men and hold them together. Wasn’t that what Tom Olson had wanted?
No, said the big Welshman, Olson had been trying to organise the men secretly, as preliminary to a revolt in all the camps. That was quite another thing from an open movement, limited to one camp. Was there any hope of success for such a movement? If not, they would be foolish to start, they would only be making sure of their own expulsion.
Jerry turned to Hal. What did he think?
And so at last Hal had to speak. It was hard for him to judge, he said. He knew so little about labour matters. It was to learn about them that he had come to North Valley. It was a hard thing to advise men to submit to such treatment as they had been getting; but on the other hand, anyone could see that a futile outbreak would discourage everybody, and make it harder than ever to organise them.
So much Hal spoke; but there was more in his mind, which he could not speak. He could not say to these men, “I am a friend of yours, but I am also a friend of your enemy, and in this crisis I cannot make up my mind to which side I owe allegiance. I’m bound by a duty of politeness to the masters of your lives; also, I’m anxious not to distress the girl I am to marry!” No, he could not say such things. He felt himself a traitor for having them in his mind, and he could hardly bring himself to look these men in the
