"I’ll maybe have to croak this guy." "That’s up to you," said Guth. "It’ll look like some strikers done it. It’s his own fault for bein’ a fool. What in hell do you care, anyway? We’ll look out for you." "All right," said the darkness. "Mind you," Guth repeated, "no more stallin’ this time. If you don’t get the goods, an’ get ’em to-night, you’re a dead boy, Reddy." There was an instant of silence. Then the darkness spoke again: "It won’t be me’s the dead one." *CHAPTER XVIII* §1. The text of the newspaper article, which Luke read carefully while he dressed, added few facts to those marshaled in its headlines. To Luke it was evident that the past few days had brought the strikers to desperation. Their own funds were gone, and they had no help from outside. They were not strong in numbers, and many of them were women. The ranks of the men had, however, been swelled to a formidable figure by unsought additions from the hundreds of hooligans that, in every city, are attracted to seats of industrial war, and these provided an element which the leaders were unable to control. The affair had gone the usual way: a picket had jeered at a non-union worker; two policemen attacked the offending picket; the crowd ran to the rescue, and a general disturbance, with the assault on the mill, was the inevitable result. Now there was no telling to what extent the trouble might go. Luke was savagely glad that physical action was imperative. He wanted something that would stop thought. He wanted rest from thought: from the spiritual strain, from the yearning for Betty. Again and again, as he hurried through a breakfast forced upon himself only by the knowledge of his need, he found his mind playing with the childish idea of the carpenter that he wanted to be, tramping the country roads from casual job to job. He might well come to that. Meanwhile, it was good to have this chance for a fight.