Early in the evening I was taken out to the visitor's room, and there I found Eleanore's father. When he saw me, Dillon smiled. "Do you know where you are?" he asked. "You're not in the Bastille--or even Libby Prison. You're in the Jefferson Market Jail." "It hasn't felt that way," I said. "Probably not. But it is that way, and there's Eleanore to be thought of." "Eleanore will understand." I saw his features tighten. I noticed now that his face was drawn, as though he, too, had been through a good deal. "Yes," he said, "she understands. But it's a bit tough on her, isn't it? Jail is not quite in her line." I felt my throat contracting: "I know all that. I'm sorry enough--on her account----" "Then let's get out of this," he said. "I've brought you bail. No use staying in here all night." "None at all," I agreed. "I want to get back to the waterfront. We're going to issue an answer to this. They'll need me for the writing." Dillon watched me a moment. "You won't be allowed to do that," he said. "They're under martial law down there." I looked up at him quickly: "The troops are here?" "Yes," he replied, and there was a pause. "These arrests, this riot," I said a little huskily. "Weren't they all framed up ahead? They needed the riot to get in the troops." "The troops are here." "Rather damnable. Do you think the people on the docks will just sit back and take it all?" "They'll have to," he said gently. "The world's work has been clogged up a little. It's to go on again now." On the street outside he took my hand: "My boy, when this is over we'll get together, you and I." "All right--when it's over," I said. * * * * * The Farm that night again changed to my eyes. It was now an orderly village of tents, two regiments of militia were here, and their sentries reached for a mile to the north watching the big companies' docks. I walked up along the line and had talks with some of the sentries. I remember one in particular, a thin, nervous little man, a shoe-clerk in a department store. Every work-day for six years he had fitted shoes on ladies' feet; he had been doing it all that morning. And now here he was down on the waterfront with only the stars above him and great shadowy spaces all around, out of which at any moment he expected rushes by strikers. These strikers to him were not human, they were "foreigners," for the moment gone mad, to be treated very much as mad dogs. And here he was all by himself, his nerves on edge, with a gun in his hands. The absurdity of that gun in his hands! And the serious danger.