What a night that was! At first the sound of excited voices and the distant harangues of saloon-steps orators, then all quieted down; there was not even the hum of the machinery--only the dull tramp of the guards without, and the far-away call, "Twelve o'clock and all's well," which told they had a picket line on the outer edge of the town. Job at last fell asleep in a heap on the floor, with other sleeping forms about him. He dreamed of home and Jane, heard Tony shout "Bress de Lawd!" and awoke to find himself aching in every bone from the hard floor. The light had gone out. Outside all he could hear was tramp, tramp, tramp. Then he heard voices. They came nearer. He crept to the key-hole and listened. "Let's burn the thing and kill 'em, and run the mine ourselves!" said one voice. "Yer blockhead, don't yer know it's stone?" drawled another. "No, gentlemen, we'll fix 'em if they don't give us our dues to-morrow! We'll starve 'em out, and yer bet they'll sign mighty quick! We don't want their lives; we want justice, and--" The voice died away in the distance. Job was sure it was Dan's. Sunday came and went with no end of the siege. It was a long day in the office. The superintendent pored over the books, and pretended to forget he was a prisoner. They took down only the topmost shutters. Some of the clerks got out a pack of cards, and asked Job to take a hand. One said contemptuously, "Oh, you're a goody-goody, parson!" when he refused, but the others quickly silenced him in a way that showed their respect for Job. The cards dropped from their hands before long, and each seemed occupied with his own thoughts. Twice during the day "the gang" and O'Donnell presented themselves at the door with the paper, and were refused. Then all hands seemed to resign themselves to a genuine siege. On the whole it was quiet outside, except for the occasional jangle of voices and the sentry's pacing. Towards night the uproar grew louder. The saloons were doing a big business, and the sound of rollicking songs and drunken brawls was in the air. Job grew restless and paced the office floor. About five o'clock a delegation came for someone to meet the men at a conference on the waste-heap back of the quartz mill. The superintendent refused to go, and asked Job to do so. "They dare not hurt you," he said. So between two armed, burly guards, Job went to look into the face of the strangest audience he had ever seen. A solid throng they stood on the bare, flat hill that rounded off at one end of the canyon below. Irishmen, Swedes, Portuguese, Germans, Chinese, Yankees--all nationalities were there, in overalls and blue jumpers, puffing at long pipes, and wedged in a solid mass about an old ore car that served as platform. Dan was speaking; he was talking of the starving miners in "Colorady," and pointed to the office building, crying, "We'll show them bloated 'ristocrats how nice it feels to starve!" while a din of voices cried, "Hear! hear!"