Turning out of the street he saw a line of soldiers blocking his way. He had the driver turn, and at the next corner found himself blocked in. Once more he tried, and again found himself fenced in. He jumped from the car, and ran, head down, toward the line of young fellows in khaki blocking the street. As he came up to them he straightened up, and, striking with his hook a terrific blow, the bayonet that would have stopped him, Grant caught the youth’s coat in the steel claw, whirled him about and was gone in a second.
He ran through alleys and across commons until he caught a street car for the smelters. Here he heard the roar of the riot. He saw the new ax-handles of the policemen beating the air, and occasionally thudding on a man’s back or head. The Slavs were crying and throwing clods and stones. Grant ran up and bellowed in his great voice:
“Quit it–break away–there, you men. Let the cops alone. Do you want to lose this strike?”
554A policeman put his hand on Grant’s shoulder to arrest him. Grant brushed him aside.
“Break away there, boys,” he called. The Slavs were standing staring at him. Several bloody faces testified to the effectiveness of the ax-handles.
“Stand back–stand back. Get to your lines,” he called, glaring at them. They fell under his spell and obeyed. When they were quiet he walked over to them, and said gently:
“It’s all right, boys–grin and bear it. We’ll win. You couldn’t help it–I couldn’t either.” He smiled. “But try–try next time.” The strike-breakers were huddled back of the policemen.
“Men,” he shouted to the strike-breakers over the heads of the policemen, “this strike is yours as well as ours. We have money to keep you, if you will join us. Come with us–comrades–Oh, comrades, stand with us in this fight! Go in there and they’ll enslave you–they’ll butcher you and kill you and offer you a lawsuit for your blood. We offer you justice, if we win. Come, come,” he cried, “fellow workers–comrades, help us to have peace.”
The policemen formed a line into the door of the shaft house. The strike-breakers hesitated. Grant approached the line of policemen, put up his arm and his maimed hand, lifted his rough, broken face skyward and cried, “O–O–O, God, pour Thy peace into their hearts that they may have mercy on their comrades.”
A silence fell, the strike-breakers began to pass through the police lines to join the strikers. At first only one at a time, then two. And then, the line broke and streamed around the policemen. A great cheer went up from the street, and Grant Adams’s face twitched and his eyes filled with tears. Then he hurried away.