Grant, who knew something of mobs, felt instinctively that the trouble was over. Nathan and Brotherton agreed. They stood for a time–a long time it seemed to them–guarding the stairs. Then some one struck a match and looked at his watch. It was half past eight. It was too late for Grant to hold his meeting. But he felt strongly that the exit of Van Dorn had left the crowd without a leader and that the fight of the night was won.
“Well,” said Grant, drawing a deep breath. “They’ll not run me out of town to-night. I could go to the lot now and hold the meeting; but it’s late and it will be better to 421wait until to-morrow night. They should sleep this off–I’m going to talk to them.”
He stepped to an iron balcony outside the window and putting his hands to his mouth uttered a long horn-like blast. The men saw him across the street. “Come over here, all of you–” he called. “I want to talk to you–just a minute.”
The crowd moved, first one or two, then three or four, then by tens. Soon the crowd stood below looking up half curiously–half angrily.
“You see, men,” he smiled as he shoved his hand in his pocket, and put his head humorously on one side:
“We are more hospitable when you all come than when you send your delegations. It’s more democratic this way–just to kind of meet out here like a big family and talk it over. Some way,” he laughed, “your delegates were in a hurry to go back and report. Well, now, that was right. That is true representative government. You sent ’em, they came; were satisfied and went back and told you all about it.” The crowd laughed. He knew when they laughed that he could talk on. “But you see, I believe in democratic government. I want you all to come and talk this matter over–not just a few.”
He paused; then began again: “Now, men, it’s late. I’ve got so much to say I don’t want to begin now. I don’t like to have Tom Van Dorn and Joe Calvin divide time with me. I want the whole evening to myself. And,” he leaned over clicking his iron claw on the balcony railing while his jaw showed the play of muscles in the light from below, “what’s more I’m going to have it, if it takes all summer. Now then,” he cried: “The Labor Council of the Wahoo Valley will hold its meeting to-morrow night at seven-thirty sharp on Captain Morton’s vacant lot just the other side of the Hot Dog saloon. I’ll talk to that meeting. I want you to come to that meeting and hear what we have to say about what we are trying to do.”
A few men clapped their hands. Grant Adams turned back into the room and in due course the crowd slowly dissolved. At ten o’clock he was standing in the door of the 422Vanderbilt House looking at his watch, ready to turn in for the night. Suddenly he remembered the Captain. He hurried around to the Hot Dog, and there peering into the darkness of the vacant lot saw the Captain with his gun on his shoulder pacing back and forth, a silent, faithful sentry, unrelieved from duty.
When Grant had relieved him and told him that the trouble was over, the little old man looked up with his snappy eyes and his dried, weazened smile and said: “’Y gory, man–I’m glad you come. I was just a-thinking I bet them girls of mine haven’t cooked any potatoes to go with the meat to make hash for breakfast–eh? and I’m strong for hash.”