“I can’t tell you--they’d fire him; but it’s somebody you know as well as me. He come and told me. They’re beatin’ me old father out of damages!” “They do it all the time!” shouted Wauchope, an English miner at Hal’s side. “That’s why they won’t let us in there.” “They done the same thing to my father!” put in another voice. Hal recognised Andy, the Greek boy. “And they want to start Number Two in the mornin’!” yelled Tim. “Who’ll go down there again? And with Alec Stone, him that damns the men and saves the mules!” “We’ll not go back in them mines till they’re safe!” shouted Wauchope. “Let them sprinkle them--or I’m done with the whole business.” “And let ’em give us our weights!” cried another. “We’ll have a check-weighman, and we’ll get what we earn!” So again came the cry, “Joe Smith! Give us a speech, Joe! Soak it to ’em! You’re the boy!” Hal stood helpless, dismayed. He had counted his fight won--and here was another beginning! The men were looking to him, calling upon him as the boldest of the rebels. Only a few of them knew about the sudden change in his fortunes. Even while he hesitated, the line of battle had swept past him; the Englishman, Wauchope, sprang upon the steps and began to address the throng. He was one of the bowed and stunted men, but in this emergency he developed sudden lung-power. Hal listened in astonishment; this silent and dull-looking fellow was the last he would have picked for a fighter. Tom Olson had sounded him out, and reported that he would hear nothing, so they had dismissed him from mind. And here he was, shouting terrible defiance! “They’re a set of robbers and murderers! They rob us everywhere we turn! For my part, I’ve had enough of it! Have you?” There was a roar from every one within reach of his voice. They had all had enough. “All right, then--we’ll fight them!” “Hurrah! Hurrah! We’ll have our rights!” Jeff Cotton came up on the run, with “Bud” Adams and two or three of the gunmen at his heels. The crowd turned upon them, the men on the outskirts clenching their fists, showing their teeth like angry dogs. Cotton’s face was red with rage, but he saw that he had a serious matter in hand; he turned and went for more help--and the mob roared with delight. Already they had begun their fight! Already they had won their first victory! SECTION 3. The crowd moved down the street, shouting and cursing as it went. Some one started to sing the Marseillaise, and others took it up, and the words mounted to a frenzy: “To arms! To arms, ye brave! March on, march on, all hearts resolved On victory or death!”