This was supplemented by inflammatory broadsides. Men stood up on fences, lamp-posts, or barrels, wherever they could get an audience, and shrieked out invectives against police, troops, government, and property; and waved red flags. Orders went out to embody more regiments. Timid people retired indoors, and bolted their shutters. The streets became deserted, except where they were filled by groups of angry men listening to angrier speakers. It was not a calm night in New York. Yet in reality, the condition was less serious, for representatives of Capital, Labor, and Government were in consultation. Inside the station, in the Directors’ room of the railroad, its officials, a committee of the strikers, and an officer in fatigue uniform, with a face to match, were seated in great leather-covered chairs, around a large table. When they had first gathered, there had been dark brows, and every sentence had been like the blow of flint on steel. At one moment all but the officer had risen from their seats, and the meeting had seemed ended. But the officer had said something quietly, and once more they had seated themselves. Far into the night they sat, while mobs yelled, and sentries marched their beats. When the gathering ended, the scowls were gone. Civil partings were exchanged, and the committee and the officer passed out together. “That Stirling is a gritty bull-dog for holding on, isn’t he?” said one of the railroad officials. “It’s a regular surrender for us.” “Yes, but we couldn’t afford to be too obstinate with him, for he may be the next governor.” One of the committee said to the officer as they passed into the street, “Well, we’ve given up everything to the road, to please you. I hope you’ll remember it when you’re governor and we want things done.” “Gentlemen,” said Peter, “for every surrender of opinion you and the railroad officials have made to-night, I thank you. But you should have compromised twelve hours sooner.” “So as you should not have had to make yourself unpopular?” asked Kurfeldt. “You needn’t be afraid. You’ve done your best for us. Now we’ll do our best for you.” “I was not thinking of myself. I was thinking of the dead,” said Peter. Peter sent a despatch to headquarters and went the rounds to see if all was as it should be. Then spreading his blanket in the passenger waiting-room, he fell asleep, not with a very happy look on the grave face. But the morning-papers announced that the strike was ended by a compromise, and New York and the country breathed easier. Peter did not get much sleep, for he was barely dreaming of—of a striker, who had destroyed his peace, by striking him in the heart with a pair of slate-colored eyes—when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He was on his feet before the disturber of his dreams could speak. “A despatch from headquarters,” said the man. Peter broke it open. It said: