first time! No, not the first time--or the last!" He sank exhausted on his chair, crumpled up. Sweat was running down his white face. There was a moment's hush--snuffling, and a few coarse sobs--and then a young man arose, and spoke in trembling voice: "I move--we send Jacob Izon to-morrow to our boss--and tell him--either no cloaks, or--we strike!" "Second! Second!" Joe put the motion. "All in favor, say aye." There was a wild shout of ayes. The motion was carried. Then the air was charged with excitement, with fiery talk, with denunciation and ardor. "Now we're in for it!" said Joe, as the room was emptied, and the aroused groups trudged east on the crunching snow. And so it was. Next morning, when Theodore Marrin made the rounds of the vast loft where two hundred girls and forty-five men were busily working--the machines racing--the air pulsing with noise--Jacob Izon arose, trembling, and confronted him. "Well, Jacob!" "I want to tell you something." "Go ahead." "The men have asked me to ask you not to have us make the cloaks." Marrin's red face seemed to grow redder. "So, that's it!" he snapped. "Well, here's my answer. Go back to your work!" The men had stopped working and were listening. The air was electric, ominous. Izon spoke tremblingly. "I am very sorry then. I must announce that the men have struck!" Marrin glared at him. "Very well! And get out--quick!" He turned and walked away, flaming with rage. The men quickly put their work away, got their hats and coats, and followed Izon. When they reached the street--a strange spectacle on flashing, brilliant Fifth Avenue--Izon suggested that they go down to Tenth Street, for they stood about like a lot of lost sheep. "No," cried one of the men, "we've had enough of Tenth Street. There's a hall we can use right over on Eighteenth Street. Come on." The rest followed. Izon reported to Joe, and Joe asked: "Do you think they'll fight it out?" "I don't know!" Izon shrugged his shoulders. This doubt was justifiable, for he soon found that he was leading a forlorn hope. As morning after morning the men assembled in the dark meeting-room behind a saloon, and sat about in their overcoats complaining and whining, quoting their wives and relatives, more and more they grew disconsolate and discouraged. There were murmurs of rebellion, words of antagonism. Finally on the fifth morning a messenger arrived with a letter. Izon took it. "It's from Marrin," he murmured. "Read it! Read it out loud!" He opened it and read: TO MY MEN,--I have thought matters over. I do not like to sever connections with men who have been so long in my employ. If you return to work this morning, you may go on at the old salaries, and we will consider the matter closed. If, however, you listen to advice calculated to ruin your future, and do not return, please remember that I will not be responsible. I shall then secure new men, and your places will be occupied by others.