Pushing their way to the flat-car, his muscular escorts hauled Job up and shouted: "The parson, lads--Mr. Job. He's goin' to talk wid yez!" "May the Holy Mother defind him!" cried a voice in the crowd. "He's the praist of me Tim!" "The fraud!" cried another; "he's as bad as the rist! Nary a per cint. would he give me yesterday!" "Hush, ye blatherskite!" hissed another. "Give the lad a chance; he's a-talkin'!" Yes, Job was talking. He did his best. He expressed the utmost sympathy with the wrongs of every man, and reminded them that they had no truer friend in the Yellow Jacket than he. He had nursed their sick, buried their dead, had been one of them in all the struggles of their lives. Voice after voice in the crowd said, "That's so! Hear! Hear!" "Hurrah fer the lad!" cried another. "Three cheers for the little parson!" Then he talked to them of the strike, and said every man had a right to quit work and the Union to strike, but no man or Union had the right to starve their fellow-beings; he spoke of the unreasonableness of this strike--the company here was not to blame for the troubles in Colorado; he reminded them that the times were hard and the cities crowded with idle men, yet the company had kept them busy and given them full wages; he urged them, if they must demand more, to go on with work and send a committee to present their claims to the directors. Cheers and hisses grew louder and louder as he spoke. The storm grew fiercer and fiercer. Job saw it was of no use. A dozen voices were yelling, "On with the strike! Starve 'em out!" Someone--could it be Dan?--shouted: "Hang the hypocrite!--coming here advising his betters! String him up!" A loud hubbub followed. Job breathed a deep, silent prayer and stood firm. A tall, brawny man clambered up beside him and cried, as he brandished a pistol: "Death to any mon that touches the kid! May all the saints keep him!" Tim's father meant business. And through the angry mob he steered Job back to the office in safety. When the supper was handed in at six, the men who brought it said that would be the last food till they signed the paper; the miners had voted to starve them out. CHAPTER XVIII. THE RACE WITH DEATH. "Job, you'll have to go. No one knows this country as you do, and no one can do it but you."