Hal thought suddenly of John Edstrom’s ants! Here they were--building their bridge, building it again and again, as often as floods might destroy it! They had not the swift impatience of a youth of the leisure-class, accustomed to having his own way, accustomed to thinking of freedom and decency and justice as necessities of life. Much as Hal learned from the conversation of these men, he learned more from their silences--the quiet, matter-of-fact way they took things which had driven him beside himself with indignation. He began to realise what it would mean to stand by his pledge to those poor devils in North Valley. He would need more than one blaze of excitement; he would need brains and patience and discipline, he would need years of study and hard work! SECTION 20. Hal found himself forced to accept the decision of the labour-leaders. They had had experience, they could judge the situation. The miners would have to go back to work, and Cartwright and Alec Stone and Jeff Cotton would drive them as before! All that the rebels could do was to try to keep a secret organisation in the camp. Jerry Minetti mentioned Jack David. He had gone back this morning, without having seen the labour-leaders. So he might escape suspicion, and keep his job, and help the union work. “How about you?” asked Hal. “I suppose you’ve cooked your goose.” Jerry had never heard this phrase, but he got its meaning. “Sure thing!” said he. “Cooked him plenty!” “Didn’t you see the ‘dicks’ down stairs in the lobby?” inquired Hartman. “I haven’t learned to recognise them yet.” “Well, you will, if you stay at this business. There hasn’t been a minute since our office was opened that we haven’t had half a dozen on the other side of the street. Every man that comes to see us is followed back to his camp and fired that same day. They’ve broken into my desk at night and stolen my letters and papers; they’ve threatened us with death a hundred times.” “I don’t see how you make any headway at all!” “They can never stop us. They thought when they broke into my desk, they’d get a list of our organisers. But you see, I carry the lists in my head!” “No small task, either,” put in Moylan. “Would you like to know how many organisers we have at work? Ninety-seven. And they haven’t caught a single one of them!” Hal heard him, amazed. Here was a new aspect of the labour movement! This quiet, resolute old “Dutchy,” whom you might have taken for a delicatessen-proprietor; this merry-eyed Irish boy, whom you would have expected to be escorting a lady to a firemen’s ball----they were captains of an army of sappers who were undermining the towers of Peter Harrigan’s fortress of greed!