“I can’t risk it. It is all wrong; but if I was to hire you to-day, why to-morrow I wouldn’t have three men working.” This had been his final answer. Shortly after this experience, Loring had been approached by a delegate who had tried to persuade him to join the Miners’ Union. The delegate had enumerated the advantages, and they were many,—a sick benefit of ten dollars a week, friends wherever he should go, work at high wages, and a seventy-five dollar funeral when he died. The delegate had asked Stephen if it were fair that when the Union, by concerted action, had brought about the prevailing high scale of wages, outsiders should both share the advantage, and yet weaken the Union position by working contrary to the fixed scale. At the end, as a peroration, the man had cited the possibilities of crushing capital at the polls, arguing with the general point of view of such men, that the chief aim of capital was to crush labor. “You needn’t pay your dues until you get your first month’s wages,” he had concluded. Stephen had begun to feel that perhaps his anti-Union convictions had been prejudiced, for the man had clearly shown many good arguments. Then the delegate, seeing that Stephen was weakening, had thought to clinch the matter. Changing his manner, he had shaken his finger in Loring’s face and said: “If you don’t join the Union, we’ll see to it that you don’t get a job in the territory. We’ll send your picture to every camp in Arizona, and life will be hell for you. There was a man only last week who wouldn’t join. He is in the hospital now, and, by Gawd, he will stay there for a while.” “That settles it,” Loring had answered. The man had become all smiles again. “I thought you would see it that way,” he had rejoined. “I think that you misunderstand me,” had been Stephen’s reply. “I would not join your Union if you hired me to do so. As a matter of fact, the Miners’ Union here is not a true labor union. It is a thugs’ Union, and the sooner all honest workingmen find it out, the better for the cause of Unionism throughout the country.” The scuffle that had ensued had resulted in Loring’s favor, but it had not helped him to find work. One morning, rather from want of occupation than from any definite expectations, Stephen took his place in the post-office at the general delivery window. He was greatly surprised when, in answer to his inquiry, the clerk slipped a letter through the grating. It bore the Quentin postmark; but the writing was unfamiliar. Stephen walked across the room, and leaning in the doorway opened the letter with curiosity. It was from Mr. Cameron, and ran in this fashion: “QUENTIN, September 20th. “STEPHEN LORING. “DEAR SIR: I suppose that you realize how final your actions here must be in regard to any trust being placed in you. I shall say no more upon the subject. The fact remains that unfortunately I am in your debt.”