The work was finally done; they started out. At the door they were stopped by half a dozen newspaper men, who had been held up by the doorman until the conference was over. "Anything special for to-morrow, Mr. Dawson?"
The big miner grinned amicably. "You might say everything's coming our way. With twenty two hundred men out, and five of the mines stopped, things are lookin' up."
The reporter for the Advertiser pushed out a question. "Did you advise violence in stopping these workers from the North?"
"Good God, no, man! That's the very thing I'm fighting against. You heard me—in every speech. We're law abiding. If there's any lawbreaking to be done, let the companies do it." He smiled grimly. "They're itching for us to give 'em an excuse to bring on the militia, as they did in '04, when they massacred the miners. They'll fail; we'll fight within the law."
He scribbled vigorously. "Is it true you were driven out of Montana and West Virginia, and almost lynched in Michigan?"
Dawson's neck swelled, his eyes smouldered. "Yes, it's true, every bit of it. And I was driven out of this state in '04. I expect it in my business. You might say things is changing, and it may be Mr. Paul Judson who's driven out next time."
There was a chorus of appreciation from the committee.
"I guess that's all."
One reporter—it was Charley Brant, of the Register—called Pelham aside. "Gotten any word from the mountain recently ... to-night?"
"No; why?"