“I guess Branyon would as lief be excused from making an apology, if it's all the same to Milt,” said Bentick, less civilly than before, and there was a ripple of smothered laughter from the crowd. Dan set his lips, and said, sternly but quietly, '“That's for him to decide.” “Well, we'll tell him what you say, and if he's ready to eat humble-pie there won't be no kick coming from us,” remarked Bentick, impartially. “Is this all?” asked Oakley. “No, we can't see the cut.” And a murmur of approval came from the men. Dan looked out over the crowd. Why couldn't they see that the final victory was in his hands? “Be guided by me,” he said, earnestly, “and take my word for it; the cut is necessary. I'll meet you half-way in the Branyon matter; let it go at that.” “We want our old wages,” insisted Bentick, doggedly. “It is out of the question; the shops are running behind; they are not earning any money, they never have, and it's as much to your interests as mine, or General Cornish's, to do your full part in making them profitable.” He pleaded with unmistakable sincerity in his tones, and now he looked at McClintock, who nodded his head. This was the stiff talk he liked to hear, and had expected from Oakley. The committee turned to the men, and the men sullenly shook their heads. Some one whispered, “He'll knuckle. He's got to. We'll make him.” Dan caught the sense of what was said, if not the words. “Wages can't go back until the business in the shops warrants it. If you will continue to work under the present arrangement, good and well. If not, I see no way to meet your demands. You will have to strike. That, however, is an alternative I trust you will carefully weigh before you commit yourselves. Once the shops are closed it will not be policy to open them until fall, perhaps not until the first of the year. But if you can afford to lie idle all summer, it's your own affair. That's exactly what it means if you strike.” He jumped down from the car, and would have left them then and there, but Bentick stepped in front of him. “Can't we talk it over, Mr. Oakley?” “There is nothing to talk over, Bentick. Settle it among yourselves.” And he marched off up the tracks, with McClintock following in his wake and commending the stand he had taken. The first emotion of the men was one of profound and depressing surprise at the abruptness with, which Oakley had terminated the interview, and his evident willingness to close the shops, a move they had not counted on. It dashed their courage. “We'll call his bluff,” cried Bentick, and the men gave a faint cheer. They were not so sure it was a bluff, after all. It looked real enough.