“She well like the tivil, b’gosh. Yes, b’gosh, she so well as that.”
“Well, then, Joe, why is it they do not wish me to go home?”
Joe flung out his hand as though what he was about to say was a mere trifle, not worthy her consideration.
“The miner—not so glad, b’gosh. They no work—no—no work. They say they tear up railroad, b’gosh. Meester Hobart, he say, ‘No tear up road.’ Joe Ratowsky, he say, ‘No tear up road.’ All time keep watch so no tear up road. You not come. Mebbe no road, mebbe all right, b’gosh.”
“A strike, Joe? Do you mean the miners threaten to destroy the road?” He nodded.
“No strike now, b’gosh. Colowski, he say, ‘Strike.’ Then all say, ‘Strike.’ Joe Ratowsky, he give him one between his eyes like this.” He doubled up his fist, showing how peace had been restored. “He no say strike then. He crawl off. He no come round for day and day.”
“Did they go back to work then?” Elizabeth was excited. All her life she had heard of the horrors of a prolonged strike. From childhood she had a dim recollection of someone taking her from her warm bed, and running across fields, seeking safety miles away. As in a dream, she could hear the roar of hoarse voices and see the flickering torches of the mob.
Joe shook his head slowly. “No, b’gosh. They mad like the tivil. They go back some day, so many tollars, every day for work. No more,” shaking his head in negation, “No, no more, b’gosh.”
Elizabeth grew anxious. She seized Mr. Ratowsky’s coat sleeve.
“But, Joe, tell me truly, is my father in danger? They won’t hurt him?”