He did not heed the interruption, but went on to tell of the superhuman efforts he had put forth to make this strike a success.
“I have done all that mortal man could do,” he shouted, “to help you win your fight, and to relieve your distress. I have suffered with you.”
“The hell you have!”
It was the same voice that had interrupted before, and again the speaker disregarded it, and went vigorously on. He could not afford, in this emergency, to get into a controversy with some obscure workman on the floor.
“I know all there is to know about this strike,” he declared. “And I know Richard Malleson and his board. Believe me, men, they are putting up no bluff. They mean what they say. They are determined to crush us. We are already beaten. The only thing left for us to do is to acknowledge our defeat, call off the strike, and give these starving men a chance to get honorably back to work.”
Then came a new interruption from another source. Some one, back among the shadows, shouted in a shrill voice:
“How much do you get for sellin’ of us out?”
There were shouts and laughter, and then a roar of disapproval. Lamar was angry. He could not brook that insult. It struck too near home. He turned his face in the direction from which the voice had come.
“I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “but I do know that you’re a cowardly liar!”
In the dark corner confusion reigned. The man with the shrill voice wanted to fight. Some of his fellows were willing to back him; others sought to restrain him. An edifying spectacle, indeed, in a house dedicated to the promotion of the gospel of the Prince of Peace. The chairman of the meeting pounded for order so vigorously that quiet was finally restored and Lamar went on with his speech.