So he stood there looking in with the revolver ready cocked in his hand.
“And what do you think I seen there?” he asked.
“I cannot guess,” I said.
“Well,” said Bill Hahn, “I seen the great Robert Winter that we had been fighting for five long months—and he was down on his hands and knees on the carpet—he had his little daughter on his back—and he was creepin' about with her—an' she was laughin'.”
Bill Hahn paused.
“I had a bead on him,” he said, “but I couldn't do it—I just couldn't do it.”
He came away all weak and trembling and cold, and, “Comrade,” he said, “I was cryin' like a baby, and didn't know why.”
The next day the strike collapsed and there was the familiar stampede for work—but Bill Hahn did not go back. He knew it would be useless. A week later his frail daughter died and was buried in the paupers field.
“She was as truly killed,” he said, “as though some one had fired a bullet at her through a window.”
“And what did you do after that?” I asked, when he had paused for a long time with his chin on his breast.