Stephen had begun to feel that perhaps his anti-Union convictions had been prejudiced, for the man had clearly shown many good arguments. Then the delegate, seeing that Stephen was weakening, had thought to clinch the matter. Changing his manner, he had shaken his finger in Loring’s face and said: “If you don’t join the Union, we’ll see to it that you don’t get a job in the territory. We’ll send your picture to every camp in Arizona, and life will be hell for you. There was a man only last week who wouldn’t join. He is in the hospital now, and, by Gawd, he will stay there for a while.”
“That settles it,” Loring had answered.
The man had become all smiles again.
“I thought you would see it that way,” he had rejoined.
“I think that you misunderstand me,” had been Stephen’s reply. “I would not join your Union if you hired me to do so. As a matter of fact, the Miners’ Union here is not a true labor union. It is a thugs’ Union, and the sooner all honest workingmen find it out, the better for the cause of Unionism throughout the country.”
The scuffle that had ensued had resulted in Loring’s favor, but it had not helped him to find work.
One morning, rather from want of occupation than from any definite expectations, Stephen took his place in the post-office at the general delivery window. He was greatly surprised when, in answer to his inquiry, the clerk slipped a letter through the grating. It bore the Quentin postmark; but the writing was unfamiliar. Stephen walked across the room, and leaning in the doorway opened the letter with curiosity. It was from Mr. Cameron, and ran in this fashion:
“Quentin, September 20th.
“Stephen Loring.