Three years before, there had been a strike in the mines of the Great Eastern Coal Company. What caused it is no matter now—some grievance, real or fancied, on the part of the miners. They had demanded redress, the company had refused to make any change in the existing order of things, and, in consequence, one morning, when the whistle blew, not a single man answered it, and the mines were shut down.
For a time things went much as usual in New River valley. The miners sat in front of their houses smoking, or gathered in little groups here and there to talk over the situation. But by degrees the appearance of contentment disappeared. None of the men had saved much money; many had none at all; still more were already in debt at the company store—they had got into the habit of exceeding their earnings there, of receiving, at the end of every month, instead of a pay envelope, a “snake statement,” with a zigzag line drawn from indebtedness to credit given. Further credit at the store was refused, and it was whispered about that the company meant to starve them into subjection. The faces of the men began to show an ominous scowl; the groups became larger and the talk took on a menacing tone. The reporters who had hurried to the scene telegraphed their papers that there would soon be trouble in the New River valley.
During all this time Mr. Bayliss had worked unceasingly to bring the strike to an end. He had labored with the officials of the company, and with the men. Both sides were obdurate. The men threatened violence; the company responded that in the event of violence it would call on the law to protect its property, and that the muskets of the troops would be loaded with ball. In the meantime the wives and children of the miners had no food, and things were growing desperate.
Just when matters were at their worst, a strange thing happened. One of the miners one morning found a sack of flour on his doorstep; another found a side of bacon; a third a basket of potatoes; a fourth, a measure of meal. Whence the gifts came no one knew; and no one tried to probe the mystery, for it was whispered about that it was bad luck to try to discover the giver, since he evidently wished to remain unknown. Word of all this came, of course, to Mr. Bayliss, and he wondered like the rest.
He was called, one night, to a cabin on the mountain-side, where a miner’s wife lay ill. It was not till long past midnight that she dropped asleep, and after comforting the husband and children as well as lay in his power, he left the cabin and started homeward. It was a clear, starlit night in late October, and he lingered on the way to breathe in the sweet, fresh fragrance of the woods—a pleasant contrast to the close cabin he had just left. As he paused for a moment to look along the valley, and wonder anew at its beauty, he heard footsteps mounting the path toward him, and glancing down, he saw a man approaching apparently carrying a heavy load. Wondering who it could be abroad at this hour, he stood where he was and awaited the stranger’s approach. But he did not come directly to him. He turned up a path which led to a cabin, and the watcher saw him place a bundle on the doorstep. With leaping heart, he understood. It was the man who had been saving the miners’ families from starvation.
His pulse was beating strangely as he saw the man return to the main path and again mount toward him. As he came opposite him, the minister stepped out of the shadow.
“My friend,” he said gently.
The stranger started as though detected in the commission of some crime, dropped the sacks he was carrying, and sprang upon the other.
“What d’ y’ mean?” he cried hoarsely, clutching him fiercely by the shoulders. “Spyin’, was y’?”
The minister smiled into his face, despite the pain his rough clasp caused him.