The door of the jail yielded to heavy blows of an ax. In the corner of a dim, bare room groveled Glidden, bound so that he had little use of his body. But he was terribly awake. When six men entered he asked, hoarsely: "What're you—after?… What—you mean?"
They jerked him erect. They cut the bonds from his legs. They dragged him out into the light of breaking day.
When he saw the masked and armed force he cried: "My God!… What'll you—do with me?"
Ghastly, working, sweating, his face betrayed his terror.
"You're to be hanged by the neck," spoke a heavy, solemn voice.
The man would have collapsed but for the strong hands that upheld him.
"What—for?" he gasped.
"For I.W.W. crimes—for treason—for speeches no American can stand in days like these." Then this deep-voiced man read to Glidden words of his own.
"Do you recognize that?"
Glidden saw how he had spoken his own doom. "Yes, I said that," he had nerve left to say. "But—I insist on arrest—trial—justice!… I'm no criminal.… I've big interests behind me.… You'll suffer—"