“And, sir,” retorted a fiery-looking man who had not spoken before, “if it comes to open war you’ll find us tough customers. We shall fight it out like men, even if we starve like beasts.”
And with these words the committee departed, leaving matters worse than ever before in the affairs of the Shawsheen Mills.
In vain did the two superintendents plead and argue and threaten the choleric old agent. His blood was up and he was a veritable charger on the eve of battle. There was no state board of arbitration then, and therefore no available way of settling their difficulties except among themselves. And as discussion only made matters worse, the subject which was always uppermost in these three men’s minds was tacitly dropped. Every precaution was taken to insure the mills from the danger it had escaped the night before, and a detective was obtained from Boston to hunt out the criminals who had perpetrated the dastardly act.
At noon, they were all surprised by a note from Miss Shepard. It ran as follows:
“Dear Mr. Greenough,
“As the owner of the Shawsheen Mill property, I hereby appoint a meeting of all its officers at my house, to-night. Please have them here at eight o’clock.
“Pardon me for the liberty I have seemed to take, and believe me ever a loving and respectful friend,
“Salome Shepard.”
“Well, you hear that, boys,” said Mr. Greenough, after reading it aloud. “Be on hand. Tell the treasurer and cashier and head book-keeper. We’ll all be there. The Lord only knows what she is up to; but if that young woman hasn’t got a level head on her shoulders, then I don’t know who has.”
“I reckon you’re right, sir,” echoed Mr. Burnham, while John Villard laughed in his sleeve at the young woman who evidently dreamed of settling a prolonged strike. “Why,” he said to himself, “she has never known enough of the practical side of mill-life to recognize one of her operatives, and hardly knows the different brands of cloth manufactured by them.”