Among the miners, the Welsh, English, German, and Poles mingled, and heartily joined hands with the Irish. For once feuds were forgotten, and nationalities all made common cause. The destruction of the collieries, or entire submission to the behests of those on the strike, had been decided upon. While the music sounded, and dancing was going on at Number Three, McKenna held a secret conference with Linden. He gave him all the information regarding the proposed action for the morrow that he had been able to gather, and assured his friend he would have fierce work to do if he did not abandon the breaker. “We can die there, then!” said Linden. “I will never give it up! Rather than that, may every man in my command—officers and all—be murdered! Let the strikers come! Some of them will bite the dust! I can tell them, we will be found well prepared!” “I’ll do everything in my power, at all events,” responded McKenna, “to discourage violence! Did any of the Chicago men recognize me, to-day?” “I think not! If they did, they had sense enough not to speak of it!” “I trust they may do the same thing to-morrow! If they come to shooting, I’m sure I’ll get out of the range of those Winchesters on the double quick!” Linden advised him to remember to do so, as he could not tell what might occur. “They—the police—look upon you as the worst and most desperate character in the Mollie crowd!” “I know it!” said McKenna, “but they’ll learn their mistake one of these days!” It was noticeable that, when communicating with Linden, the detective dropped his well-worn brogue, and conversed in his ordinary tone, using few Celtic terms. The conference was brief, and with a “good night” the detectives separated, McKenna returning to the camp-fires, and Linden seeking sleep upon his bed of hay. When he reached Number Three, McKenna learned that a portion of his brother Mollies, fearing to face the consequences of the parade—as it was called—but, as it really was, a mob, comprising all the elements of a commune and a riot—had fled to Ringtown Mountain and there organized a local guard, or reserve force. Among these stay-at-home heroes—who received loud shouts, hisses of derision, and the appellation of “craven-hearted cowards”—was Mike, _alias_ Muff Lawler. He would have nothing to do with the celebration, sneaked away and hid himself at Ringtown. The operative, having in mind the pusillanimous manner in which the same man had retreated from Dick Flynn, at Colorado Colliery, months before, leaving him to face the infuriated fellow alone, was not much surprised that Lawler had no appetite for the next day’s work, but said nothing. In fact, if the truth were told, the detective did not really blame Mike for his later action, and, had not duty called him to take part in the proceedings, would have adopted a similar course. But he must stay and see the affair through. It was not his time to run away.