“I tell you, Mr. Mayor, we need the troops. The Sheriff agrees with me–now you hear that,” said young Joe. “Will you wait until some one is killed or worse, until a mine is flooded, before sending for them?”
“You know, Ahab,” put in old Joe, “the Governor said on the phone this morning, not to let this situation get away from you.”
The crowd was joining the singing. The words–the inspiring words of the labor chant had caught the people on the sidewalk, and a great diapason was rising:
“March on! March on!–all hearts resolved
On victory or death.”
“Hear that–hear that, Ahab!” cried old Joe. “Why, the decent people up town here are going crazy–they’re all singing it–and that little devil is waving a red flag with the white one!”
Ahab Wright looked and was aghast. “Doesn’t that mean rebellion–anarchy–and bloodshed?” he gasped.
“It means socialism,” quoth young Joe, laconically, “which is the same thing.”
“Well, well! my! my! Dear me,” fretted Ahab, “we mustn’t let this go on.”
“Shall I get the Governor on the phone–you know we have the Sheriff’s order here–just waiting for you to join him?” asked young Joe.
The Haves were moving the realm of the discussion about their property from pure reason to the baser emotions.