They had held a stormy meeting at the Labor Union, and the worst element among them had become desperate, and swore to “bring the old man to terms.” They had gone in a body to the mills, where they hoped to find some of their employers in consultation. There they had found that the whole force of their opponents had gone to the great Shepard Mansion. Nothing daunted, they turned their steps thither, and at every street corner were joined by the element of hoodlumism which is always scattered about over the streets of a large and poorly-governed town.
Hence the mob that confronted the officers of the Shawsheen Mills held all the elements of danger and disturbance.
When Otis Greenough’s bald head appeared before them, the crowd set up a yell of mingled derision and defiance.
“Give us our rights, old Baldy” shouted one voice.
“Give us fair play and fair wages,” called another, while worse epithets were hurled at him, from the roughs in the rear.
Otis Greenough’s face was purple.
“This is outrageous!” he exclaimed in hot haste. “What right have you to come here and defile an honest citizen’s premises with your wretched, polluting presence?”
“Stop that, now!” shouted one of the leaders. “Fair play all round. If you won’t come to us, we’ll come to you, and compel you to make terms, and decent ones, with us. We want——”
But the crowd of street idlers who had come in search of excitement, and not argument, grew restless, and broke in noisily; and when Otis Greenough opened his mouth to speak again, he was struck squarely in the face by a handful of gravel and mud.
Then a sudden hush fell over the mob.