“Certainly not. But you can arrest me quietly, when you like, or I’ll meet you at the police station any hour you name, but if you attempt to interfere now, you’ll have a riot on your hands. I’m holding this crowd in check--it is not their fear of you. There’s no traffic coming through this street nor likely to come. We’re therefore obstructing nothing, and I’m as anxious as you are to keep the men within the law. Good heavens! you may have your hands full at any moment, so don’t push patient people over the line. Remember, you are not in Sartwell’s employ. I only want a few words with these men, then we’ll leave the street to you.” The captain hesitated a moment. It was an ominous mob. “Look sharp then,” he said, and stepped back. “Come with us,” cried Gibbons. “We can’t talk here. Come to the big hall, and, if, you don’t like what we say there will be no harm done. This is a free country.” The secretary turned as if he had no doubt the crowd would follow, and the leaderless men walked after him. Gibbons’ assistants mixed among them, and talked persuasively with the strangers. Before half an hour all the “blacklegs,” were in the Salvation Army hall, signing the Union roll and being put on the strike-pay list. It was a notable triumph for Gibbons; first blood, as a sporting-man would say. Next morning, when the gates were opened, not a man entered, and Sartwell once more found himself without an employee. After the gates had remained invitingly open for half an hour, they were closed again, and a great cheer went up as the two big iron-bolted leaves came together. Sartwell’s resources, however, were not yet exhausted, for two days later the factory was thronged with workmen once more, and these also Gibbons bought from under the manager.