“I hope to hell it will,” remarked Branyon's boy, Augustus, with cordial ill-will and fluent profanity. He was not a good little boy. He himself would have been the first to spurn the idea of personal sanctity. But he was literally bursting with the importance of the facts which he possessed, and Clarence's indifference gave him no opening. “What will you bet there ain't a strike?” “I ain't betting this morning,” said Clarence, blandly. “But if there is one we are ready for it. You bet the hands won't catch us napping. We are ready for 'em any time and all the time.” This, delivered with a large air, impressed Spide exceedingly. “Have you sent for the militia a'ready?” he asked, anxiously. “That's saying,” noting the effect of his words. “I can't go blabbing about, telling what the road's up to, but we are awake, and the hands will get it in the neck if they tackle the boss. He's got dam little use for laboring men, anyhow.” To Clarence, Oakley was the most august person he had ever known. He religiously believed his position to be only second in point of importance and power to that of the President of the United States. He was wont to invest him with purely imaginary attributes, and to lie about him at a great rate among his comrades, who were ready to credit any report touching a man who was reputed to be able to ride on the cars without a ticket. Human grandeur had no limits beyond this. “There was a meeting last night. I bet you didn't know that,” said Spide. “I heard something of it. Was your father at the meeting, Spide?” he asked, dropping his tone of hostility for one of gracious familiarity. The urchin promptly crossed the ditch and stood at his side. “Of course the old man was. You don't suppose he wouldn't be in it?” “Oh, well, let 'em kick. You see the boss is ready for 'em,” remarked Clarence, indifferently. He wanted to know what Spide knew, but he didn't feel that he could afford to show any special interest. “Where you going--swimming?” he added. “Yep.” But Spide was not ready to drop the fascinating subject of the strike. He wished to astonish Clarence, who was altogether too knowing. “The meeting was in the room over Jack Britt's saloon,” he volunteered. “I suppose you think we didn't know that up at the office. We got our spies out. There ain't nothing the hands can do we ain't on to.” Spide wrote his initials in the soft bank of the ditch with his big toe, while he meditated on what he could tell next. “Well, sir, you'd 'a' been surprised if you'd 'a' been there.” “Was you there, Spide?” “Yep.” “Oh, come off; you can't stuff me.” “I was, too, there. The old lady sent me down to fetch pap home. She was afraid he'd get full. Joe Stokes was there, and Lou Bentick, and a whole slew of others, and Griff Ryder.” Clarence gasped with astonishment. “Why, he ain't one of the hands.” “Well, he's on their side.” “What you giving us?”