“Well, you seen it ain’t,” returned the policeman; then added: “The strikers send some of their men to meet every train to learn whether any strike-breakers have been imported or not. If they find any, they try to persuade them not to go on board any of the boats, and if words don’t do it, they use other means to prevent them.”
“Unless we arrive on the scene in time,” supplemented a man on whose uniform were the stripes of a sergeant; then asked: “If you are not scabs, what are you?”
“We are going to make the trip from Buffalo to Duluth on the ore boat Admiral as guests of Mr. Bronson, one of the owners in Boston,” replied Phil.
“We are on our way to take up a homestead out in Washington State,” chimed in Ted, noting that the officers did not seem very much impressed by his brother’s statement. “As those men were the only ones in sight, except some railroad men, when we stepped onto the platform, we asked them the way to the Waterfront Dock.”
“The story sounds straight, Jerry,” opined one of the other officers. “What’ll we do, escort ’em down to the dock? They’d never get there alone.”
The sergeant’s reply was interrupted by the hurried arrival of a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man.
“Are you boys Phil and Ted Porter?” he asked.
“We are,” chorused the lads.
“You—er—haven’t had any trouble, I hope?” and he looked anxiously from the boys to the policemen.
“No real trouble, though I’m afraid we should have if it had not been for these officers,” returned Phil.