Part 63 (1/2)

Grant Adams, in his office, was the motive power of the strike. By telephone his power was transferred all over the district. Violet Hogan and Henry Fenn were with him. Two telephones began buzzing as the first strikers went into Sands Park. Fenn, sitting by Grant, picked up the first transmitter; Violet took the other. She took the message in shorthand. Fenn translated a running jargon between breaths.

”Police down in Foley--Clubbing the Letts.--No bloodshed.--They are running back to their gardens.”

”Tell the French to take their places,” said Grant--”There are four French sevens--tell him to get them out right away--but not to fight the cops. Militia there?”

”No,” answered Fenn, ”they are guarding the mill doors, and this happened in the streets near the lodging houses.”

”Mr. Adams,” said Violet, reading, ”there's some kind of a row in Sands Park. The cavalry is there and Ira Dooley says to tell you to clear out the Park or there will be trouble.”

”Get the boys on the phone, Violet, and tell them I said leave the Park, then, and go to the shaft houses in Magnus--but to march in silence--understand?”

Fenn picked up the transmitter again, ”What's that--what's that--” he cried. Then he mumbled on, ”He says the cops have ax-handles and that down by the smelters they are whacking our people right and left--Three in an ambulance?--The Slavs won't take it? Cop badly hurt?” asked Fenn.

Grant Adams groaned, and put his head in his hand, and leaned on the desk. He rose up suddenly with a flaming face and said: ”I'm going down there--I can stop it.”

He bolted from the room and rattled down the stairs. In a minute he came running up. ”Violet--” he called to the woman who was busy at the telephone--”shut that man off and order a car for me quick--they've stolen my crank and cut every one of my tires. For G.o.d's sake be quick--I must get down to those Slavs.”

In a moment Violet had shut off her interviewer, and was calling the South Harvey Garage. Henry Fenn, busy with his phone, looked up with a drawn face and cried:

”Grant--the Cossacks--the Cossacks are riding down those little Italians in Sands Park--chasing them like dogs from the paths--they say the cavalry is using whips!”

Grant stood with bowed head and arched shoulders listening. The muscles of his jaw contracted, and he snapped his teeth.

”Any one hurt?” he asked. Fenn, with the receiver to his ear went on, ”The Dagoes are not fighting back--the cavalrymen are shooting in the air, but--the lines are broken--the scabs are marching to the mines through a line of soldiers--we've stopped about a third from the cars--they are forming at the upper end of the Park--our men, they--”

”Good-by,” shouted Grant, as he heard a motor car whirring in the distance.

Turning out of the street he saw a line of soldiers blocking his way. He had the driver turn, and at the next corner found himself blocked in.

Once more he tried, and again found himself fenced in. He jumped from the car, and ran, head down, toward the line of young fellows in khaki blocking the street. As he came up to them he straightened up, and, striking with his hook a terrific blow, the bayonet that would have stopped him, Grant caught the youth's coat in the steel claw, whirled him about and was gone in a second.

He ran through alleys and across commons until he caught a street car for the smelters. Here he heard the roar of the riot. He saw the new ax-handles of the policemen beating the air, and occasionally thudding on a man's back or head. The Slavs were crying and throwing clods and stones. Grant ran up and bellowed in his great voice:

”Quit it--break away--there, you men. Let the cops alone. Do you want to lose this strike?”

A policeman put his hand on Grant's shoulder to arrest him. Grant brushed him aside.

”Break away there, boys,” he called. The Slavs were standing staring at him. Several b.l.o.o.d.y faces testified to the effectiveness of the ax-handles.

”Stand back--stand back. Get to your lines,” he called, glaring at them.

They fell under his spell and obeyed. When they were quiet he walked over to them, and said gently:

”It's all right, boys--grin and bear it. We'll win. You couldn't help it--I couldn't either.” He smiled. ”But try--try next time.” The strike-breakers were huddled back of the policemen.

”Men,” he shouted to the strike-breakers over the heads of the policemen, ”this strike is yours as well as ours. We have money to keep you, if you will join us. Come with us--comrades--Oh, comrades, stand with us in this fight! Go in there and they'll enslave you--they'll butcher you and kill you and offer you a lawsuit for your blood. We offer you justice, if we win. Come, come,” he cried, ”fellow workers--comrades, help us to have peace.”

The policemen formed a line into the door of the shaft house. The strike-breakers hesitated. Grant approached the line of policemen, put up his arm and his maimed hand, lifted his rough, broken face skyward and cried, ”O--O--O, G.o.d, pour Thy peace into their hearts that they may have mercy on their comrades.”

A silence fell, the strike-breakers began to pa.s.s through the police lines to join the strikers. At first only one at a time, then two. And then, the line broke and streamed around the policemen. A great cheer went up from the street, and Grant Adams's face twitched and his eyes filled with tears. Then he hurried away.

It was eight o'clock and the picketing for the day was done, when Grant reached his office.