“Ye will if ye’ll listen to me. They say call the strike off an’ git out. Men, ye can’t git out that way. It’s death to ye if ye try it. Maybe it’s death anyway, I don’t know; but if it is I’ll die a-fightin’.”
“So will I!” “And I!” “And I!”
“That’s right! If ye fight, an’ fight like hell, ye’ll win. I know. They can’t run their mills with scabs. You won’t let ’em run their mills with scabs. I’ll smash the head o’ the first scab that takes my job. It ain’t his job; it’s mine. I’ve got a right to it. Them jobs down there are yours. Them machines down there are yours. You earned the money that bought ’em. You’ve got a right to run ’em, an’ if ye do what I tell ye, ye will run ’em. The man that lays down now an’ lets Dick Malleson tread on ’is neck is a damned fool!”
“That’s right, Bricky! Go for ’em! Give ’em hell!”
The passions of the crowd, swayed by Bricky’s rude eloquence, were being roused to the fighting pitch.
“Yes,” he went on, swinging his long arms, and opening and closing his big fists; “an’ do ye know what’s happenin’ to-day? A car-load o’ scabs has been switched into the mill-yard. I got the word when I come in. By six o’clock one of ’em will have your machine, Bill Souder, and one of ’em will have yours, Abe Slinsky, and one of ’em will have yours, and yours, and yours,” pointing his forefinger in rapid succession at the men who sat in front of him. His voice rose to a piercing height:
“Will ye let ’em keep ’em?”
“No!” came the answer from two hundred throats. “No!” “We’ll club ’em out! We’ll kill ’em!”
Men were on their feet, shouting, gesticulating, demanding, swearing. Bricky’s voice rose again, high above the clamor.