"You're all right, John, but you're in with the wrong bunch."
"We're going to run things for a while now and give you a chance to do some real work."
The police pleaded with them. The mob jeered, "Go get a job with
McIver's gunmen. Go find the man who murdered Captain Charlie."
Once more the growling undertones swelled into a roar. "Come on—come on—we've had enough talk—let's do something."
As the crowd surged again toward the Mill doors, there was a forward movement of the close-packed group of workmen about the ear. John, leaning over them, said, sharply, "No—no—not that—men, not that!"
Then suddenly the movement of the mob toward the Mill was again checked as Peter Martin raised his voice. "If you won't listen to Mr. Ward," said the old man, when he had caught their attention, "perhaps you'll not mind hearin' me."
In the stillness of the uncertain moment, a voice answered, "Go ahead,
Uncle Pete!"
Standing on the seat of the automobile, the kindly old workman looked down into the grim faces of his comrades. And, as they saw him there and thought of Captain Charlie, a deep breath of feeling swept over the throng.
In his slow, thoughtful way the veteran of the Mill spoke. "There'll be no one among you, I'm thinkin', that'll dare say as how I don't belong to the workin' class. An' there'll be no man that'll deny my right to be heard in any meeting of Millsburgh working men. I helped the Interpreter to organize the first union that was ever started in this city—and so far we've managed to carry on our union work without any help from outsiders who have no real right to call themselves American citizens even—much less to dictate to us American workmen."
There was a stir among Vodell's followers. A voice rose but was silenced by the muttered protest which it caused. Jake Vodell, quick to grasp the feeling of the crowd, was making his way toward his goods box rostrum. Here and there he paused a moment to whisper to one of his inner circle.