The time-honored method of determining the condition of the hole was beautifully simple. It was to catch a small boy and throw him in, and until this rite was performed the big boys used the place but gingerly. Mr. Brown and his friends were waiting for this small boy to happen along, when the unsuspecting Spide ran down the bank. He was promptly seized by the mighty Tink. “Been in yet, Spide?” asked his captor, genially. “Nope.” “Then this is your chance.” Whereat Spide began to cry. He didn't want to go in. All at once he remembered he had promised his mother he wouldn't and that his father had promised him a licking if he did--two excellent reasons why he should stay out--but Tink only pushed him towards the water's edge. “You're hurting me! Lemme alone, you big loafer! Lemme go, or I'll tell the old man on you!” and he scratched and clawed, but Tink merely laughed, and the other boys advised him to “chuck the little shaver in.” “Lemme take off my shirt and pants! Lemme take off my pants--just my pants, Tink!” he entreated. But he was raised on high and hurled out into the stream where the sunlight flashed among the shadows cast by the willows. His hat went one way and his cigarette another. Pink was considerately tossed after him, and all his earthly possessions were afloat. There was a splash, and he disappeared from sight to reappear a second later, with streaming hair and dripping face. “How is it?” chorussed the big boys, who were already pulling off their clothes, as they saw that neither barb-wire nor osage-orange brush festooned the swimmer. “Bully!” ecstatically, and he dived dexterously into the crown of his upturned hat, which a puff of wind had sent dancing gayly down-stream. CHAPTER XIII SAY!” Clarence blurted out, “there's going to be a strike!” Oakley glanced up from his writing. “What's that you are telling me, Clarence?” “There's going to be a strike, Mr. Oakley.” Dan smiled good-naturedly at the boy. “I guess that has blown over, Clarence,” he said, kindly. “No, it ain't. The men had a meeting last night. It was in the room over Jack Britt's saloon. I've just been talking with a fellow who was there; he told me.” “Sit down,” said Oakley, pushing a chair towards him. “Now, what is it?” as soon as he was seated. And Clarence, editing his reminiscences as he saw fit, gave a tolerably truthful account of his conversation with Spide. The source of his information, its general incompleteness, and the frequent divergences, occasioned by the boy's attempt to incorporate into the narrative a satisfactory reason for his own presence in the yards, did not detract from its value in Oakley's estimation. The mere fact that the men had held a meeting was in itself significant. Such a thing was new to Antioch, as yet unvisited by labor troubles. “What is that you say about my father?” For he had rather lost track of the story and caught at the sudden mention of his father's name.