"But how _can_ you fight him?"

"With the one weapon I have--publicity."

"You mean--" Percy stopped, and stared.

"I mean what I said before--I'd turn Billy Keating loose and blow this
whole story wide open."

"Well, by God!" cried young Harrigan. "I must say I'd call it damned
dirty of you! You said you'd not do it, if I'd come here and open the
mine!"

"But what good does it do to open it, if you close it again before the
men are out?" Hal paused, and when he went on it was in a sincere
attempt at apology. "Percy, don't imagine I fail to appreciate the
embarrassments of this situation. I know I must seem a cad to you--more
than you've cared to tell me. I called you my friend in spite of all our
quarrels. All I can do is to assure you that I never intended to get
into such a position as this."

"Well, what the hell did you want to come here for? You knew it was the
property of a friend--"

"That's the question at issue between us, Percy. Have you forgotten our
arguments? I tried to convince you what it meant that you and I should
own the things by which other people have to live. I said we were
ignorant of the conditions under which our properties were worked, we
were a bunch of parasites and idlers. But you laughed at me, called me a
crank, an anarchist, said I swallowed what any muck-raker fed me. So I
said: 'I'll go to one of Percy's mines! Then, when he tries to argue
with me, I'll have him!' That was the way the thing started--as a joke.
But then I got drawn into things. I don't want to be nasty, but no man
with a drop of red blood in his veins could stay in this place a week
without wanting to fight! That's why I want you to stay--you ought to
stay, to meet some of the people and see for yourself."

"Well, I can't stay," said the other, coldly. "And all I can tell you is
that I wish you'd go somewhere else to do your sociology."

"But where could I go, Percy? Somebody owns everything. If it's a big
thing, it's almost certain to be somebody we know."

Said Percy, "If I might make a suggestion, you could have begun with the
coal-mines of the Warner Company."

Hal laughed. "You may be sure I thought of that, Percy. But see the
situation! If I was to accomplish my purpose, it was essential that I
shouldn't be known. And I had met some of my father's superintendents in
his office, and I knew they'd recognise me. So I _had_ to go to some
other mines."

"Most fortunate for the Warner Company," replied Percy, in an ugly tone.

Hal answered, gravely, "Let me tell you, I don't intend to leave the
Warner Company permanently out of my sociology."

"Well," replied the other, "all I can say is that we pass one of their
properties on our way back, and nothing would please me better than to
stop the train and let you off!"



SECTION 21.

Hal went into the drawing-room car. There were Mrs. Curtis and Reggie
Porter, playing bridge with Genevieve Halsey and young Everson. Bob
Creston was chatting with Betty Gunnison, telling her what he had seen
outside, no doubt. Bert Atkins was looking over the morning paper,
yawning. Hal went on, seeking Jessie Arthur, and found her in one of the
compartments of the car, looking out of the rain-drenched
window--learning about a mining-camp in the manner permitted to young
ladies of her class.

He expected to find her in a disturbed state of mind, and was prepared
to apologise. But when he met the look of distress she turned upon him,
he did not know just where to begin. He tried to speak casually--he had
heard she was going away. But she caught him by the hand, exclaiming:
"Hal, you are coming with us!"

He did not answer for a moment, but sat down by her. "Have I made you
suffer so much, Jessie?"

He saw tears start into her eyes. "Haven't you _known_ you were making
me suffer? Here I was as Percy's guest; and to have you put such
questions to me! What could I say? What do I know about the way Mr.
Harrigan should run his business?"

"Yes, dear," he said, humbly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have drawn you into
it. But the matter was so complicated and so sudden. Can't you
understand that, and forgive me? Everything has turned out so well!"

But she did not think that everything had turned out well. "In the first
place, for you to be here, in such a plight! And when I thought you were
hunting mountain-goats in Mexico!"

He could not help laughing; but Jessie had not even a smile. "And
then--to have you drag our love into the thing, there before every one!"

"Was that really so terrible, Jessie?"

She looked at him with amazement. That he, Hal Warner, could have done
such a thing, and not realise how terrible it was! To put her in a
position where she had to break either the laws of love or the laws of
good-breeding! Why, it had amounted to a public quarrel. It would be the
talk of the town--there was no end to the embarrassment of it!

"But, sweetheart!" argued Hal. "Try to see the reality of this
thing--think about those people in the mine. You really _must_ do that!"

She looked at him, and noticed the new, grim lines that had come upon
his youthful face. Also, she caught the note of suppressed passion in
his voice. He was pale and weary looking, in dirty clothes, his hair
unkempt and his face only half washed. It was terrifying--as if he had
gone to war.

"Listen to me, Jessie," he insisted. "I want you to know about these
things. If you and I are ever to make each other happy, you must try to
grow up with me. That was why I was glad to have you here--you would
have a chance to see for yourself. Now I ask you not to go without
seeing."

"But I have to go, Hal. I can't ask Percy Harrigan to stay and
inconvenience everybody!"

"You can stay without him. You can ask one of the ladies to chaperon
you."

She gazed at him in dismay. "Why, Hal! What a thing to suggest!"

"Why so?"

"Think how it would look!"

"I can't think so much about looks, dear--"

She broke in: "Think what Mamma would say!"

"She wouldn't like it, I know--"

"She would be wild! She would never forgive either of us. She would
never forgive any one who stayed with me. And what would Percy say, if I
came here as his guest, and stayed to spy on him and his father? Don't
you see how preposterous it would be?"

Yes, he saw. He was defying all the conventions of her world, and it
seemed to her a course of madness. She clutched his hands in hers, and
the tears ran down her cheeks.

"Hal," she cried, "I can't leave you in this dreadful place! You look
like a ghost, and a scarecrow, too! I want you to go and get some decent
clothes and come home on this train."

But he shook his head. "It's not possible, Jessie."

"Why not?"

"Because I have a duty to do here. Can't you understand, dear? All my
life, I've been living on the labour of coal-miners, and I've never
taken the trouble to go near them, to see how my money was got!"

"But, Hal! These aren't your people! They are Mr. Harrigan's people!"

"Yes," he said, "but it's all the same. They toil, and we live on their
toil, and take it as a matter of course."

"But what can one _do_ about it, Hal?"

"One can understand it, if nothing else. And you see what I was able to
do in this case--to get the mine open."

"Hal," she exclaimed, "I can't understand you! You've become so cynical,
you don't believe in any one! You're quite convinced that these
officials meant to murder their working people! As if Mr. Harrigan would
let his mines be run that way!"

"Mr. Harrigan, Jessie? He passes the collection plate at St. George's!
That's the only place you've ever seen him, and that's all you know
about him."

"I know what everybody says, Hal! Papa knows him, and my brothers--yes,
your own brother, too! Isn't it true that Edward would disapprove what
you're doing?"

"Yes, dear, I fear so."

"And you set yourself up against them--against everybody you know! Is it
reasonable to think the older people are all wrong, and only you are
right? Isn't it at least possible you're making a mistake? Think about
it--honestly, Hal, for my sake!"

She was looking at him pleadingly; and he leaned forward and took her
hand. "Jessie," he said, his voice trembling, "I _know_ that these
working people are oppressed; I know it, because I have been one of
them! And I know that such men as Peter Harrigan, and even my own
brother, are to blame! And they've got to be faced by some one--they've
got to be made to see! I've come to see it clearly this summer--that's
the job I have to do!"

She was gazing at him with her wide-open, beautiful eyes; underneath her
protests and her terror, she was thrilling with awe at this amazing
madman she loved. "They will _kill_ you!" she cried.

"No, dearest--you don't need to worry about that--I don't think they'll
kill me."

"But they shot at you!"

"No, they shot at Joe Smith, a miner's buddy. They won't shoot at the
son of a millionaire--not in America, Jessie."

"But some dark night--"

"Set your mind at rest," he said, "I've got Percy tied up in this, and
everybody knows it. There's no way they could kill me without the whole
story's coming out--and so I'm as safe as I would be in my bed at home!"



SECTION 22.

Hal was still possessed by his idea that Jessie must be taught--she must
have knowledge forced upon her, whether she would or no. The train would
not start for a couple of hours, and he tried to think of some use he
could make of that precious interval. He recalled that Rosa Minetti had
returned to her cabin to attend to her baby. A sudden vision came to him
of Jessie in that little home. Rosa was sweet and good, and assuredly
Little Jerry was a "winner."

"Sweetheart," he said, "I wish you'd come for a walk with me."

"But it's raining, Hal!"

"It won't hurt you to spoil one dress; you have plenty."

"I'm not thinking of that--"

"I _wish_ you'd come."

"I don't feel comfortable about it, Hal. I'm here as Percy's guest, and
he mightn't like--"

"I'll ask him if he objects to your taking a stroll," he suggested, with
pretended gravity.

"No, no! That would make it worse!" Jessie had no humour whatever about
these matters.

"Well, Vivie Cass was out, and some of the others are going. He hasn't
objected to that."

"I know, Hal. But he knows they're all right."

Hal laughed. "Come on, Jessie. Percy won't hold you for my sins! You
have a long train journey before you, and some fresh air will be good
for you."

She saw that she must make some concession to him, if she was to keep
any of her influence over him.

"All right," she said, with resignation, and disappeared and returned
with a heavy veil over her face, to conceal her from prying reportorial
eyes; also an equipment of mackintosh, umbrella and overshoes, against
the rain. The two stole out of the car, feeling like a couple of
criminals.

Skirting the edge of the throng about the pit-mouth, they came to the
muddy, unpaved quarter in which the Italians had their homes; he held
her arm, steering her through the miniature sloughs and creeks. It was
thrilling to him to have her with him thus, to see her sweet face and
hear her voice full of love. Many a time he had thought of her here, and
told her in his imagination of his experiences!

He told her now--about the Minetti family, and how he had met Big and
Little Jerry on the street, and how they had taken him in, and then been
driven by fear to let him go again. He told his check-weighman story,
and was telling how Jeff Cotton had arrested him; but they came to the
Minetti cabin, and the terrifying narrative was cut short.

It was Little Jerry who came to the door, with the remains of breakfast
distributed upon his cheeks; he stared in wonder at the mysteriously
veiled figure. Entering, they saw Rosa sitting in a chair nursing her
baby. She rose in confusion; but she did not quite like to turn her back
upon her guests, so she stood trying to hide her breast as best she
could, blushing and looking very girlish and pretty.

Hal introduced Jessie, as an old friend who was interested to meet his
new friends, and Jessie threw back her veil and sat down. Little Jerry
wiped off his face at his mother's command, and then came where he could
stare at this incredibly lovely vision.

"I've been telling Miss Arthur what good care you took of me," said Hal
to Rosa. "She wanted to come and thank you for it."

"Yes," added Jessie, graciously. "Anybody who is good to Hal earns my
gratitude."

Rosa started to murmur something; but Little Jerry broke in, with his
cheerful voice, "Why you call him Hal? His name's Joe!"

"Ssh!" cried Rosa. But Hal and Jessie laughed--and so the process of
Americanising Little Jerry was continued.

"I've got lots of names," said Hal. "They called me Hal when I was a kid
like you."

"Did _she_ know you then?" inquired Little Jerry.

"Yes, indeed."

"Is she your girl?"

Rosa laughed shyly, and Jessie blushed, and looked charming. She
realised vaguely a difference in manners. These people accepted the
existence of "girls," not concealing their interest in the phenomenon.

"It's a secret," warned Hal. "Don't you tell on us!"

"I can keep a secret," said Little Jerry. After a moment's pause he
added, dropping his voice, "You gotta keep secrets if you work in North
Valley."

"You bet your life," said Hal.

"My father's a Socialist," continued the other, addressing Jessie; then,
since one thing leads on to another, "My father's a shot-firer."

"What's a shot-firer?" asked Jessie, by way of being sociable.

"Jesus!" exclaimed Little Jerry. "Don't you know nothin' about minin'?"

"No," said Jessie. "You tell me."

"You couldn't get no coal without a shot-firer," declared Little Jerry.
"You gotta get a good one, too, or maybe you bust up the mine. My
father's the best they got."

"What does he do?"

"Well, they got a drill--long, long, like this, all the way across the
room; and they turn it and bore holes in the coal. Sometimes they got
machines to drill, only we don't like them machines, 'cause it takes the
men's jobs. When they got the holes, then the shot-firer comes and sets
off the powder. You gotta have--" and here Little Jerry slowed up,
pronouncing each syllable very carefully--"per-miss-i-ble powder--what
don't make no flame. And you gotta know just how much to put in. If you
put in too much, you smash the coal, and the miner raises hell; if you
don't put in enough, you make too much work for him, an' he raises hell
again. So you gotta get a good shot-firer."

Jessie looked at Hal, and he saw that her dismay was mingled with
genuine amusement. He judged this a good way for her to get her
education, so he proceeded to draw out Little Jerry on other aspects of
coal-mining: on short weights and long hours, grafting bosses and
camp-marshals, company-stores and boarding-houses, Socialist agitators
and union organisers. Little Jerry talked freely of the secrets of the
camp. "It's all right for you to know," he remarked gravely. "You're
Joe's girl!"

"You little cherub!" exclaimed Jessie.

"What's a cherub?" was Little Jerry's reply.



SECTION 23.

So the time passed in a way that was pleasant. Jessie was completely won
by this little Dago mine-urchin, in spite of all his frightful
curse-words; and Hal saw that she was won, and was delighted by the
success of this experiment in social amalgamation. He could not read
Jessie's mind, and realise that underneath her genuine delight were
reservations born of her prejudices, the instinctive cruelty of caste.
Yes, this little mine chap was a cherub, now; but how about when he grew
big? He would grow ugly and coarse-looking, in ten years one would not
know him from any other of the rough and dirty men of the village.
Jessie took the fact that common people grow ugly as they mature as a
proof that they are, in some deep and permanent way, the inferiors of
those above them. Hal was throwing away his time and strength, trying to
make them into something which Nature had obviously not intended them to
be! She decided to make that point to Hal on their way back to the
train. She realised that he had brought her here to educate her; like
all the rest of the world, she resented forcible education, and she was
not without hope that she might turn the tables and educate Hal.

Pretty soon Rosa finished nursing the baby, and Jessie remarked the
little one's black eyes. This topic broke down the mother's shyness, and
they were chatting pleasantly, when suddenly they heard sounds outside
which caused them to start up. It was a clamour of women's voices; and
Hal and Rosa sprang to the door. Just now was a critical time, when
every one was on edge for news.

Hal threw open the door and called to those outside "What is it?" There
came a response, in a woman's voice, "They've found Rafferty!"

"Alive?"

"Nobody knows yet."

"Where?"

"In Room Seventeen. Eleven of them--Rafferty, and young Flanagan, and
Johannson, the Swede. They're near dead--can't speak, they say. They
won't let anybody near them."

Other voices broke in; but the one which answered Hal had a different
quality; it was a warm, rich voice, unmistakably Irish, and it held
Jessie's attention. "They've got them in the tipple-room, and the women
want to know about their men, and they won't tell them. They're beatin'
them back like dogs!"

There was a tumult of weeping, and Hal stepped out of the cabin, and in
a minute or so he entered again, supporting on his arm a girl, clad in a
faded blue calico dress, and having a head of very conspicuous red hair.
She seemed half fainting, and kept moaning that it was horrible,
horrible. Hal led her to a chair, and she sank into it and hid her face
in her hands, sobbing, talking incoherently between her sobs.

Jessie stood looking at this girl. She felt the intensity of her
excitement, and shared it; yet at the same time there was something in
Jessie that resented it. She did not wish to be upset about things like
this, which she could not help. Of course these unfortunate people were
suffering; but--what a shocking lot of noise the poor thing was making!
A part of the poor thing's excitement was rage, and Jessie realised
that, and resented it still more. It was as if it were a personal
challenge to her; the same as Hal's fierce social passions, which so
bewildered and shocked her.

"They're beatin' the women back like dogs!" the girl repeated.

"Mary," said Hal, trying to soothe her, "the doctors will be doing their
best. The women couldn't expect to crowd about them!"

"Maybe they couldn't; but that's not it, Joe, and ye know it! They been
bringin' up dead bodies, some they found where the explosion was--blown
all to pieces. And they won't let anybody see them. Is that because of
the doctors? No, it ain't! It's because they want to tell lies about the
number killed! They want to count four or five legs to a man! And that's
what's drivin' the women crazy! I saw Mrs. Zamboni, tryin' to get into
the shed, and Pete Hanun caught her by the breasts and shoved her back.
'I want my man!' she screamed. 'Well, what do you want him for? He's all
in pieces!' 'I want the pieces!' 'What good'll they do you? Are you
goin' to eat him?'"

There were cries of horror now, even from Jessie; and the strange girl
hid her face in her hands and began to sob again. Hal put his hand
gently on her arm.

"Mary," he pleaded, "it's not so bad--at least they're getting the
people out."

"How do ye know what they're doin'? They might be sealin' up parts of
the mine down below! That's what makes it so horrible--nobody knows
what's happenin'! Ye should have heard poor Mrs. Rafferty screamin'.
Joe, it went through me like a knife. Just think, it's been half an hour
since they brought him up, and the poor lady can't be told if her man is
alive."



SECTION 24.

Hal stood for a few moments in thought. He was surprised that such
things should be happening while Percy Harrigan's train was in the
village. He was considering whether he should go to Percy, or whether a
hint to Cotton or Cartwright would not be sufficient.

"Mary," he said, in a quiet voice, "you needn't distress yourself so. We
can get better treatment for the women, I'm sure."

But her sobbing went on. "What can ye do? They're bound to have their
way!"

"No," said Hal. "There's a difference now. Believe me--something can be
done. I'll step over and have a word with Jeff Cotton."

He started towards the door; but there came a cry: "Hal!" It was Jessie,
whom he had almost forgotten in his sudden anger at the bosses.

At her protest he turned and looked at her; then he looked at Mary. He
saw the latter's hands fall from her tear-stained face, and her
expression of grief give way to one of wonder. "Hal!"

"Excuse me," he said, quickly. "Miss Burke, this is my friend, Miss
Arthur." Then, not quite sure if this was a satisfactory introduction,
he added, "Jessie, this is my friend, Mary."

Jessie's training could not fail in any emergency. "Miss Burke," she
said, and smiled with perfect politeness. But Mary said nothing, and the
strained look did not leave her face.

In the first excitement she had almost failed to notice this stranger;
but now she stared, and realisation grew upon her. Here was a girl,
beautiful with a kind of beauty hardly to be conceived of in a
mining-camp; reserved, yet obviously expensive--even in a mackintosh and
rubber-shoes. Mary was used to the expensiveness of Mrs. O'Callahan, but
here was a new kind of expensiveness, subtle and compelling, strangely
unconscious. And she laid claim to Joe Smith, the miner's buddy! She
called him by a name hitherto unknown to his North Valley associates! It
needed no word from Little Jerry to guide Mary's instinct; she knew in a
flash that here was the "other girl."

Mary was seized with sudden acute consciousness of the blue calico
dress, patched at the shoulder and stained with grease-spots; of her
hands, big and rough with hard labour; of her feet, clad in shoes worn
sideways at the heel, and threatening to break out at the toes. And as
for Jessie, she too had the woman's instinct; she too saw a girl who was
beautiful, with a kind of beauty of which she did not approve, but which
she could not deny--the beauty of robust health, of abounding animal
energy. Jessie was not unaware of the nature of her own charms, having
been carefully educated to conserve them; nor did she fail to make note
of the other girl's handicaps--the patched and greasy dress, the big
rough hands, the shoes worn sideways. But even so, she realised that
"Red Mary" had a quality which she lacked--that beside this wild rose of
a mining-camp, she, Jessie Arthur, might possibly seem a garden flower,
fragile and insipid.

She had seen Hal lay his hand upon Mary's arm, and heard her speak to
him. She called him Joe! And a sudden fear had leaped into Jessie's
heart.

Like many girls who have been delicately reared, Jessie Arthur knew more
than she admitted, even to herself. She knew enough to realise that
young men with ample means and leisure are not always saints and
ascetics. Also, she had heard the remark many times made that these
women of the lower orders had "no morals." Just what did such a remark
mean? What would be the attitude of such a girl as Mary
Burke--full-blooded and intense, dissatisfied with her lot in life--to a
man of culture and charm like Hal? She would covet him, of course; no
woman who knew him could fail to covet him. And she would try to steal
him away from his friends, from the world to which he belonged, the
future of happiness and ease to which he was entitled. She would have
powers--dark and terrible powers, all the more appalling to Jessie
because they were mysterious. Might they possibly be able to overcome
even the handicap of a dirty calico dress, of big rough hands and shoes
worn sideways?

These reflections, which have taken many words to explain, came to
Jessie in one flash of intuition. She understood now, all at once, the
incomprehensible phenomenon--that Hal should leave friends and home and
career, to come and live amid this squalor and suffering! She saw the
old drama of the soul of man, heaven and hell contending for mastery of
it; and she knew that she was heaven, and that this "Red Mary" was hell.

She looked at Hal. He seemed to her so fine and true; his face was
frank, he was the soul of honourableness. No, it was impossible to
believe that he had yielded to such a lure! If that had been the case,
he would never have brought her to this cabin, he would never have taken
a chance of her meeting the girl. No; but he might be struggling against
temptation, he might be in the toils of it, and only half aware of it.
He was a man, and therefore blind; he was a dreamer, and it would be
like him to idealise this girl, calling her naГЇve and primitive,
thinking that she had no wiles! Jessie had come just in time to save
him! And she would fight to save him--using wiles more subtle than those
at the command of any mining-camp hussy!



SECTION 25.

It was the surging up in Jessie Arthur of that instinctive self, the
creature of hereditary cruelty, of the existence of which Hal had no
idea. She drew back, and there was a quiet _hauteur_ in her tone as she
spoke. "Hal, come here, please."

He came; and she waited until he was close enough for intimacy, and then
said, "Have you forgotten you have to take me back to the train?"

"Can't you come with me for a few minutes?" he pleaded. "It would have
such a good effect if you did."

"I can't go into that crowd," she answered; and suddenly her voice
trembled, and the tears came into her sweet brown eyes. "Don't you know,
Hal, that I couldn't stand such terrible sights? This poor girl--she is
used to them--she is hardened! But I--I--oh, take me away, take me away,
dear Hal!" This cry of a woman for protection came with a familiar echo
to Hal's mind. He did not stop to think--he was moved by it
instinctively. Yes, he had exposed the girl he loved to suffering! He
had meant it for her own good, but even so, it was cruel!

He stood close to her, and saw the love-light in her eyes; he saw the
tears, the trembling of her sensitive chin. She swayed to him, and he
caught her in his arms--and there, before these witnesses, she let him
press her to him, while she sobbed and whispered her distress. She had
been shy of caresses hitherto, watched and admonished by an experienced
mother; certainly she had never before made what could by the remotest
stretch of the imagination be considered an advance towards him. But now
she made it, and there was a cry of triumph in her soul as she saw that
he responded to it. He was still hers--and these low people should know
it, this "other girl" should know it!

Yet, in the midst of this very exultation, Jessie Arthur really felt the
grief she expressed for the women of North Valley; she really felt
horror at the story of Mrs. Zamboni's "man": so intricate is the soul of
woman, so puzzling that faculty, older than the ages, which enables her
to be hysterical, and at the same time to be guided in the use of that
hysteria by deep and infallible calculation.

But she made Hal realise that it was necessary for him to take her away.
He turned to Mary Burke and said, "Miss Arthur's train is leaving in a
short time. I'll have to take her hack, and then I'll go to the
pit-mouth with you and see what I can do."

"Very well," Mary answered; and her voice was hard and cold. But Hal did
not notice this. He was a man, and not able to keep up with the emotions
of one woman--to say nothing of two women at the same time.

He took Jessie out, and all the way hack to the train she fought a
desperate fight to get him away from here. She no longer even suggested
that he get decent clothing; she was willing for him to come as he was,
in his coal-stained mining-jumpers, in the private train of the Coal
King's son. She besought him in the name of their affection. She
threatened him that if he did not come, this might be the last time they
would meet. She even broke down in the middle of the street, and let him
stand there in plain sight of miners' wives and children, and of
possible newspaper reporters, holding her in his arms and comforting
her.

Hal was much puzzled; but he would not give way. The idea of going off
in Percy Harrigan's train had come to seem morally repulsive to him; he
hated Percy Harrigan's train, and Percy Harrigan also, he declared. And
Jessie saw that she was only making him unreasonable--that before long
he might be hating her. With her instinctive _savoir faire_, she brought
up his suggestion that she might find some one to chaperon her, and stay
with him at North Valley until he was ready to come away.

Hal's heart leaped at that; he had no idea what was in her mind--the
certainty that no one of the ladies of the Harrigan party would run the
risk of offending her host by staying under such circumstances.

"You mean it, sweetheart?" he cried, happily.

She answered, "I mean that I love you, Hal."

"All right, dear!" he said. "We'll see if we can arrange it."

But as they walked on, she managed, without his realising it, to cause
him to reflect upon the effect of her staying. She was willing to do it,
if it was what he wanted; but it would injure, perhaps irrevocably, his
standing with her parents. They would telegraph her to come at once; and
if she did not obey, they would come by the next train. So on, until at
last Hal was moved to withdraw his own suggestion. After all, what was
the use of her staying, if her mind was on the people at home, if she
would simply keep him in hot water? Before the conversation was over Hal
had become clear in his mind that North Valley was no place for Jessie
Arthur, and that he had been a fool to think he could bring the two
together.

She tried to get him to promise to leave as soon as the last man had
been brought out of the mine. He answered that he intended to leave
then, unless some new emergency should arise. She tried to get an
unqualified promise; and failing in that, when they had nearly got to
the train she suddenly made a complete surrender. Let him do what he
pleased--but let him remember that she loved him, that she needed him,
that she could not do without him. No matter what he might do, no matter
what people might say about him, she believed in him, she would stand by
him. Hal was deeply touched, and took her in his arms again and kissed
her tenderly under the umbrella, in the presence of the wondering stares
of several urchins with coal-smutted faces. He pledged anew his love for
her, assuring her that no amount of interest in mining-camps should ever
steal him from her.

Then he put her on the train, and shook hands with the departing guests.
He was so very sombre and harassed-looking that the young men forbore to
"kid" him as they would otherwise have done. He stood on the
station-platform and saw the train roll away--and felt, to his own
desperate bewilderment, that he hated these friends of his boyhood and
youth. His reason protested against it; he told himself there was
nothing they could do, no reason on earth for them to stay--and yet he
hated them. They were hurrying off to dance and flirt at the country
club--while he was going back to the pit-mouth, to try to get Mrs.
Zamboni the right to inspect the pieces of her "man"!




BOOK FOUR

THE WILL OF KING COAL




SECTION 1.

The pit of death was giving up its secrets. The hoist was busy, and
cage-load after cage-load came up, with bodies dead and bodies living
and bodies only to be classified after machines had pumped air into them
for a while. Hal stood in the rain and watched the crowd and thought
that he had never witnessed a scene so compelling to pity and terror.
The silence that would fall when any one appeared who might have news to
tell! The sudden shriek of anguish from some woman whose hopes were
struck dead! The moans of sympathy that ran through the crowd,
alternating with cheers at some good tidings, shaking the souls of the
multitude as a storm of wind shakes a reed-field!

And the stories that ran through the camp--brought up from the
underground world--stories of incredible sufferings, and of still more
incredible heroisms! Men who had been four days without food or water,
yet had resisted being carried out of the mine, proposing to stay and
help rescue others! Men who had lain together in the darkness and
silence, keeping themselves alive by the water which seeped from the
rocks overhead, taking turns lying face upwards where the drops fell, or
wetting pieces of their clothing and sucking out the moisture! Members
of the rescue parties would tell how they knocked upon the barriers, and
heard the faint answering signals of the imprisoned men; how madly they
toiled to cut through, and how, when at last a little hole appeared,
they heard the cries of joy, and saw the eyes of men shining from the
darkness, while they waited, gasping, for the hole to grow bigger, so
that water and food might be passed in!

In some places they were fighting the fire. Long lines of hose had been
sent down, and men were moving forward foot by foot, as the smoke and
steam were sucked out ahead of them by the fan. Those who did this work
were taking their lives in their hands, yet they went without
hesitation. There was always hope of finding men in barricaded rooms
beyond.

Hal sought out Jeff Cotton at the entrance to the tipple-room, which had
been turned into a temporary hospital. It was the first time the two had
met since the revelation in Percy's car, and the camp-marshal's face
took on a rather sheepish grin. "Well, Mr. Warner, you win," he
remarked; and after a little arguing he agreed to permit a couple of
women to go into the tipple-room and make a list of the injured, and go
out and give the news to the crowd. Hal went to the Minettis to ask Mary
Burke to attend to this; but Rosa said that Mary had gone out after he
and Miss Arthur had left, and no one knew where she was. So Hal went to
Mrs. David, who consented to get a couple of friends, and do the work
without being called a "committee." "I won't have any damned
committees!" the camp-marshal had declared.

So the night passed, and part of another day. A clerk from the office
came to Hal with a sealed envelope, containing a telegram, addressed in
care of Cartwright. "I most urgently beg of you to come home at once. It
will be distressing to Dad if he hears what has happened, and it will
not be possible to keep the matter from him for long."

As Hal read, he frowned; evidently the Harrigans had got busy without
delay! He went to the office and telephoned his answer. "Am planning to
leave in a day or two. Trust you will make an effort to spare Dad until
you have heard my story."

This message troubled Hal. It started in his mind long arguments with
his brother, and explanations and apologies to his father. He loved the
old man tenderly. What a shame if some emissary of the Harrigans were to
get to him to upset him with misrepresentations!

Also these ideas had a tendency to make Hal homesick; they brought more
vividly to his thoughts the outside world, with its physical
allurements--there being a limit to the amount of unwholesome meals and
dirty beds and repulsive sights a man of refinement can force himself to
endure. Hal found himself obsessed by a vision of a club dining-room,
with odours of grilled steaks and hot rolls, and the colours of salads
and fresh fruits and cream. The conviction grew suddenly strong in him
that his work in North Valley was nearly done!

Another night passed, and another day. The last of the bodies had been
brought out, and the corpses shipped down to Pedro for one of those big
wholesale funerals which are a feature of mine-life. The fire was out,
and the rescue-crews had given place to a swarm of carpenters and
timbermen, repairing the damage and making the mine safe. The reporters
had gone; Billy Keating having clasped Hal's hand, and promised to meet
him for luncheon at the club. An agent of the "Red Cross" was on hand,
and was feeding the hungry out of Mrs. Curtis's subscription-list. What
more was there for Hal to do--except to bid good-bye to his friends, and
assure them of his help in the future?

First among these friends was Mary Burke, whom he had had no chance to
talk to since the meeting with Jessie. He realised that Mary had been
deliberately avoiding him. She was not in her home, and he went to
inquire at the Rafferties', and stopped for a good-bye chat with the old
woman whose husband he had saved.

Rafferty was going to pull through. His wife had been allowed in to see
him, and tears rolled down her shrunken cheeks as she told about it. He
had been four days and nights blocked up in a little tunnel, with no
food or water, save for a few drops of coffee which he had shared with
other men. He could still not speak, he could hardly move a hand; but
there was life in his eyes, and his look had been a greeting from the
soul she had loved and served these thirty years and more. Mrs. Rafferty
sang praises to the Rafferty God, who had brought him safely through
these perils; it seemed obvious that He must be more efficient than the
Protestant God of Johannson, the giant Swede, who had lain by Rafferty's
side and given up the ghost.

But the doctor had stated that the old Irishman would never be good to
work again; and Hal saw a shadow of terror cross the sunshine of Mrs.
Rafferty's rejoicing. How could a doctor say a thing like that? Rafferty
was old, to be sure; but he was tough--and could any doctor imagine how
hard a man would try who had a family looking to him? Sure, he was not
the one to give up for a bit of pain now and then! Besides him, there
was only Tim who was earning; and though Tim was a good lad, and worked
steady, any doctor ought to know that a big family could not be kept
going on the wages of one eighteen-year-old pit-boy. As for the other
lads, there was a law that said they were too young to work. Mrs.
Rafferty thought there should be some one to put a little sense into the
heads of them that made the laws--for if they wanted to forbid children
to work in coal-mines, they should surely provide some other way to feed
the children.

Hal listened, agreeing sympathetically, and meantime watching her, and
learning more from her actions than from her words. She had been
obedient to the teachings of her religion, to be fruitful and multiply;
she had fed three grown sons into the maw of industry, and had still
eight children and a man to care for. Hal wondered if she had ever
rested a single minute of daylight in all her fifty-four years.
Certainly not while he had been in her house! Even now, while praising
the Rafferty God and blaming the capitalist law-makers, she was getting
a supper, moving swiftly, silently, like a machine. She was lean as an
old horse that has toiled across a desert; the skin over her cheek-bones
was tight as stretched rubber, and cords stood out in her wrists like
piano-wires.

And now she was cringing before the spectre of destitution. He asked
what she would do about it, and saw the shadow of terror cross her face
again. There was one recourse from starvation, it seemed--to have her
children taken from her, and put in some institution! At the mention of
this, one of the special nightmares of the poor, the old woman began to
sob and cry again that the doctor was wrong; he would see, and Hal would
see--Old Rafferty would be back at his job in a week or two!



SECTION 2.

Hal went out on the street again. It was the hour which would have been
sunset in a level region; the tops of the mountains were touched with a
purple light, and the air was fresh and chill with early fall. Down the
darkening streets he saw a gathering of men; there was shouting, and
people running towards the place, so he hurried up, with the thought in
his mind, "What's the matter now?" There were perhaps a hundred men
crying out, their voices mingling like the sound of waves on the sea. He
could make out words: "Go on! Go on! We've had enough of it! Hurrah!"

"What's happened?" he asked, of some one on the outskirts; and the man,
recognising him, raised a cry which ran through the throng: "Joe Smith!
He's the boy for us! Come in here, Joe! Give us a speech!"

But even while Hal was asking questions, trying to get the situation
clear, other shouts had drowned out his name. "We've had enough of them
walking over us!" And somebody cried, more loudly, "Tell us about it!
Tell it again! Go on!"

A man was standing upon the steps of a building at one side. Hal stared
in amazement; it was Tim Rafferty. Of all people in the world--Tim, the
light-hearted and simple, Tim of the laughing face and the merry Irish
blue eyes! Now his sandy hair was tousled and his features distorted
with rage. "Him near dead!" he yelled. "Him with his voice gone, and
couldn't move his hand! Eleven years he's slaved for them, and near
killed in an accident that's their own fault--every man in this crowd
knows it's their own fault, by God!"

"Sure thing! You're right!" cried a chorus of voices "Tell it all!"

"They give him twenty-five dollars and his hospital expenses--and
what'll his hospital expenses be? They'll have him out on the street
again before he's able to stand. You know that--they done it to Pete
Cullen!"

"You bet they did!"

"Them damned lawyers in there--gettin' 'em to sign papers when they
don't know what they're doin'. An' me that might help him can't get
near! By Christ, I say it's too much! Are we slaves, or are we dogs,
that we have to stand such things?"

"We'll stand no more of it!" shouted one. "We'll go in there and see to
it ourselves!"

"Come on!" shouted another. "To hell with their gunmen!"

Hal pushed his way into the crowd. "Tim!" he cried. "How do you know
this?"

"There's a fellow in there seen it."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you--they'd fire him; but it's somebody you know as well
as me. He come and told me. They're beatin' me old father out of
damages!"

"They do it all the time!" shouted Wauchope, an English miner at Hal's
side. "That's why they won't let us in there."

"They done the same thing to my father!" put in another voice. Hal
recognised Andy, the Greek boy.

"And they want to start Number Two in the mornin'!" yelled Tim. "Who'll
go down there again? And with Alec Stone, him that damns the men and
saves the mules!"

"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 every one 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!



SECTION 3.

The crowd moved down the street, shouting and cursing as it went. Some
one 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!

Some one 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 employГ©s 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, any
one 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 eye. Jerry knew that he was in some way connected with
the Harrigans; probably he had told the rest of Hal's friends, and they
had been discussing it and speculating about the meaning of it. Suppose
they should think he was a spy?

So Hal was relieved when Jack David spoke firmly. They would only be
playing the game of the enemy if they let themselves be drawn in
prematurely. They ought to have the advice of Tom Olson.

Where was Olson? Hal asked; and David explained that on the day when Hal
had been thrown out of camp, Olson had got his "time" and set out for
Sheridan, the local headquarters of the union, to report the situation.
He would probably not come back; he had got his little group together,
he had planted the seed of revolt in North Valley.

They discussed back and forth the problem of getting advice. It was
impossible to telephone from North Valley without everything they said
being listened to; but the evening train for Pedro left in a few
minutes, and "Big Jack" declared that some one ought to take it. The
town of Sheridan was only fifteen or twenty miles from Pedro, and there
would be a union official there to advise them; or they might use the
long distance telephone, and persuade one of the union leaders in
Western City to take the midnight train, and be in Pedro next morning.

Hal, still hoping to withdraw himself, put this task off on Jack David.
They emptied out the contents of their pockets, so that he might have
funds enough, and the big Welshman darted off to catch the train. In the
meantime Jerry and Hal agreed to keep in the background, and to seek out
the other members of their group and warn them to do the same.



SECTION 4.

This programme was a convenient one for Hal; but as he was to find
almost at once, it had been adopted too late. He and Jerry started after
the crowd, which had stopped in front of one of the company buildings;
and as they came nearer they heard some one making a speech. It was the
voice of a woman, the tones rising clear and compelling. They could not
see the speaker, because of the throng, but Hal recognised her voice,
and caught his companion by the arm. "It's Mary Burke!"

Mary Burke it was, for a fact; and she seemed to have the crowd in a
kind of frenzy. She would speak one sentence, and there would come a
roar from the throng; she would speak another sentence, and there would
come another roar. Hal and Jerry pushed their way in, to where they
could make out the words of this litany of rage.