"Here, brothers, there ain't no use in calling names or showing hard feelings. All of us know what John Dawson's done for us--all of us know that Jack Bowden's been a faithful union man for more years than a horse has teeth." There was a grin at this, and a weak rattle of applause, which encouraged him. "If we can win by agreement, there's no use turning anything down cold. This offer from Mr. Kane may be just a feeler; maybe the company's ready now to do more. Why not instruct the strike committee, working with brothers Bivens, Pooley, and Bowden, to get in touch with the office again, and see if we can't get more out of them? I believe in using sense at all times. I move that." There was a scowl on the faces of the _Voice of Labor_ crowd as the motion was put, but, after all, Bowden reflected, it was at least a half victory. The motion was carried overwhelmingly, and the committee was instructed to act at once. When he got to his room at the Mecca Hotel, tired and down-hearted, John Dawson stretched at once on the bed. The phone rang abruptly. "It's for you, Mac," he called to McGue, who sat scratching his head over a game of solitaire on the greasy wash-stand top. The shorter man hung up the receiver, puzzled. "It's from Mr. Brant, of the _Register_, he says--and he wants me to go over to Mr. Judson's office right away to see him on something important." "I'm goin' to bed. See you when you come back." He skidded the huge shoes toward the side of the cheap oak bureau. There was a knock on the door, a scant six minutes later. John Dawson, brain half asleep, his head screwed into the pillow, grumbled a "Come in!" and turned over slowly. He sat up quickly, flinging his feet over the edge of the bed to the floor, as Ed Cole's ingratiating face came around the corner of the door. "Well?" He sat up tensely. He wondered whether to reach for the pistol under his pillow, cursing the fact that McGue had gone. Then he reflected that this negro would never have courage enough to plan any harm. "What do you want, Cole?" "You ain' treat me right, Mr. Dawson," said the negro, who kept his hands in a shabby overcoat reaching to the ground. "Ah ain' took no money f'um dat Jim Hewin." "Come around and see me to-morrow at headquarters. I'm in bed now." He pretended a yawn, still keenly alert. "You done me dirt, Mr. Dawson. Ah ain' stan' fer dat f'um no man, white or black." Dawson rose to his feet, and swayed menacingly on his bare toes. "I don't let nobody disturb me after I've gone to bed, Cole. Git out of here." His hand started working its way back along the sheeting. The negro's startled eyes saw the slow motion; Dawson heard the chatter of his teeth. "Ah'm--Ah'm gon'ter fix you, Mr. Dawson"--he raised the right hand, weighted with an ugly forty-five.