“He keeps them a-roll, that merry old soul—
The wheels of industree;
A-roll and a-roll, for his pipe and his bowl
And his college facultee!”
“Yes,” growled the marshal. “It's easy enough for you smart young chaps to make verses, while you're living at ease on the old man's bounty. But that don't answer any argument. Are you college boys ready to take over his job? Or these Democrat politicians that come in here, talking fool-talk about liberty, making labour laws for these wops—”
“I begin to understand,” said Hal. “You object to the politicians who pass the laws, you doubt their motives—and so you refuse to obey. But why didn't you tell me sooner you were an anarchist?”
“Anarchist?” cried the marshal. “Me an anarchist?”
“That's what an anarchist is, isn't it?”
“Good God! If that isn't the limit! You come here, stirring up the men—a union agitator, or whatever you are—and you know that the first idea of these people, when they do break loose, is to put dynamite in the shafts and set fire to the buildings!”
“Do they do that?” There was surprise in Hal's tone.
“Haven't you read what they did in the last big strike? That dough-faced old preacher, John Edstrom, could tell you. He was one of the bunch.”
“No,” said Hal, “you're mistaken. Edstrom has a different philosophy. But others did, I've no doubt. And since I've been here, I can understand their point of view entirely. When they set fire to the buildings, it was because they thought you and Alec Stone might be inside.”
The marshal did not smile.