Part 45 (2/2)

Then, with Mr. Brotherton's gun covering the father in the street below, the driver of the car turned it carefully through the parting crowd, and was gone as mysteriously and as quickly as he came.

”Now,” cried Mr. Brotherton, still sighting down the gun barrel pointed at Van Dorn, standing alone in the middle of the street, ”you make tracks, and don't you go to that saloon either--you go home to the bosom of your family. Stop,” roared Mr. Brotherton, as the man tried to break into a run. Van Dorn stopped. ”Go down to the Company store where the union men are,” commanded Mr. Brotherton. ”They will take you home.

”Hey--you Local No. 10,” howled the great bull voice of Brotherton. ”You fellows take this man home to his own vine and fig tree.”

Van Dorn, looking ever behind him for help that did not come, edged down the street and into the arms of Local No. 10, and was swallowed up in that crowd. A rock from across the street crashed through the window where the gun barrels were protruding, but there was no fire in return.

Another rock and another came. But there was no firing.

Grant, who knew something of mobs, felt instinctively that the trouble was over. Nathan and Brotherton agreed. They stood for a time--a long time it seemed to them--guarding the stairs. Then some one struck a match and looked at his watch. It was half past eight. It was too late for Grant to hold his meeting. But he felt strongly that the exit of Van Dorn had left the crowd without a leader and that the fight of the night was won.

”Well,” said Grant, drawing a deep breath. ”They'll not run me out of town to-night. I could go to the lot now and hold the meeting; but it's late and it will be better to wait until to-morrow night. They should sleep this off--I'm going to talk to them.”

He stepped to an iron balcony outside the window and putting his hands to his mouth uttered a long horn-like blast. The men saw him across the street. ”Come over here, all of you--” he called. ”I want to talk to you--just a minute.”

The crowd moved, first one or two, then three or four, then by tens.

Soon the crowd stood below looking up half curiously--half angrily.

”You see, men,” he smiled as he shoved his hand in his pocket, and put his head humorously on one side:

”We are more hospitable when you all come than when you send your delegations. It's more democratic this way--just to kind of meet out here like a big family and talk it over. Some way,” he laughed, ”your delegates were in a hurry to go back and report. Well, now, that was right. That is true representative government. You sent 'em, they came; were satisfied and went back and told you all about it.” The crowd laughed. He knew when they laughed that he could talk on. ”But you see, I believe in democratic government. I want you all to come and talk this matter over--not just a few.”

He paused; then began again: ”Now, men, it's late. I've got so much to say I don't want to begin now. I don't like to have Tom Van Dorn and Joe Calvin divide time with me. I want the whole evening to myself. And,” he leaned over clicking his iron claw on the balcony railing while his jaw showed the play of muscles in the light from below, ”what's more I'm going to have it, if it takes all summer. Now then,” he cried: ”The Labor Council of the Wahoo Valley will hold its meeting to-morrow night at seven-thirty sharp on Captain Morton's vacant lot just the other side of the Hot Dog saloon. I'll talk to that meeting. I want you to come to that meeting and hear what we have to say about what we are trying to do.”

A few men clapped their hands. Grant Adams turned back into the room and in due course the crowd slowly dissolved. At ten o'clock he was standing in the door of the Vanderbilt House looking at his watch, ready to turn in for the night. Suddenly he remembered the Captain. He hurried around to the Hot Dog, and there peering into the darkness of the vacant lot saw the Captain with his gun on his shoulder pacing back and forth, a silent, faithful sentry, unrelieved from duty.

When Grant had relieved him and told him that the trouble was over, the little old man looked up with his snappy eyes and his dried, weazened smile and said: ”'Y gory, man--I'm glad you come. I was just a-thinking I bet them girls of mine haven't cooked any potatoes to go with the meat to make hash for breakfast--eh? and I'm strong for hash.”

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

IN WHICH WE WITNESS A CEREMONY IN THE TEMPLE OF LOVE

George Brotherton took the Captain to the street car that night. They rode face to face and all that the Captain had seen and more, outside the Vanderbilt House, and all that George Brotherton had seen within its portals, a street car load of Harvey people heard with much ”'Y gorying”

and ”Well--saying,” as the car rattled through the fields and into Market Street. Amiable satisfaction with the night's work beamed in the moon-face of Mr. Brotherton and the Captain was drunk with martial spirit. He shouldered his gun and marched down the full length of the car and off, dragging Brotherton at his chariot wheels like a spoil of battle.

”Come on, George,” called the Captain as the audience in the car smiled.

”Young man, I need you to tell the girls that their pa ain't gone stark, staring mad--eh? And I want to show 'em a hero!--What say? A genuine hee-ro!”

It was half an hour after the Captain bursting upon his hearthstone like a martial sky rocket, had exploded the last of his blue and green candles. The three girls, sitting around the cold base burner, beside and above which Mr. Brotherton stood in statuesque repose, heard the Captain's tale and the protests of Mr. Brotherton much as Desdemona heard of Oth.e.l.lo's perils. And when the story was finished and retold and refinished and the Captain was rising with what the girls called the hash-look in his snappy little eyes, Martha saw Ruth swallow a vast yawn and Martha turned to Emma an appreciative smile at Ruth's discomfiture.

But Emma's eyes were fixed upon Mr. Brotherton and her face turned toward him with an aspect of tender adoration. Mr. Brotherton, who was not without appreciation of his own heroic caste, saw the yawn and the smile and then he saw the face of Emma Morton.

It came over him in a flash of surprise that Ruth and Martha were young things, not of his world; and that Emma was of his world and very much for him in his world. It got to him through the busy guard of his outer consciousness with a great rush of tenderness that Emma really cared for the dangers he had faced and was proud of the part he had played. And Mr. Brotherton knew that, with Ruth and Martha, it was a tale that was told.

As he saw her standing among her sisters, his heart hid from him the little school teacher with crow's feet at her eyes, but revealed instead the glowing heart of an exalted woman, who did not realize that she was uncovering her love, a woman who in the story she had heard was living for a moment in high romance. Her beloved, imperiled, was restored to her; the lost was found and the journey which ends so happily in lovers'

meetings was closing.

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