“Yes, but we couldn’t afford to be too obstinate with him, for he may be the next governor.”
One of the committee said to the officer as they passed into the street, “Well, we’ve given up everything to the road, to please you. I hope you’ll remember it when you’re governor and we want things done.”
“Gentlemen,” said Peter, “for every surrender of opinion you and the railroad officials have made to-night, I thank you. But you should have compromised twelve hours sooner.”
“So as you should not have had to make yourself unpopular?” asked Kurfeldt. “You needn’t be afraid. You’ve done your best for us. Now we’ll do our best for you.”
“I was not thinking of myself. I was thinking of the dead,” said Peter.
Peter sent a despatch to headquarters and went the rounds to see if all was as it should be. Then spreading his blanket in the passenger waiting-room, he fell asleep, not with a very happy look on the grave face.
But the morning-papers announced that the strike was ended by a compromise, and New York and the country breathed easier.
Peter did not get much sleep, for he was barely dreaming of—of a striker, who had destroyed his peace, by striking him in the heart with a pair of slate-colored eyes—when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He was on his feet before the disturber of his dreams could speak.
“A despatch from headquarters,” said the man.
Peter broke it open. It said: