"Here he is," roared the stranger, pulling Roger round to face the crowd. "If he tries murder now, what'll he do when he has a factory of his own?"
Roger thrust his trembling hands into his trousers pockets. "Don't you think it!" he shouted. "What do I want of a factory? To let a crowd of ignoramuses like you ruin me—just out of ignorance and envy? Not on your life! My father's going onto a farm and I'm going with him. I hope you're all satisfied."
"Farm!" sneered the stranger. "Why, he'll have a bunch of scabs up here to-morrow. I know Moore!"
What Roger might have said, one cannot know, for at that moment a man drove up in an automobile and shouldered his way up to the office door. He pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket as he mounted the steps.
"Who are you?" asked Roger. "I'm Mr. Moore's son!"
"I'm Mr. Wrench of Chicago. Trouble serious?"
"No," replied the boy. "Just a lot of hot air."
"One moment please," said the strange speaker. "There'll be serious trouble here if some questions aren't answered. What is your business here?"
"I'm to see to the dismantling of the factory," answered Mr. Wrench, indifferently.
A long breath seemed to rise from the listening crowd. Automatically it broke up into little groups and the best efforts of the strike leaders could not pull it together again. Roger felt that the excitement was all over and he made his way slowly home.