In consequence of all this, everyone felt that affairs were reaching a crisis, and the lodge room was even more crowded than usual, this evening, as the hour for the meeting approached. The men gathered in little groups and discussed in low tones the scene of the evening before. It was evident that a new spirit had come over the men, and more than one stated that it was his intention to approve the suggestion made by Adams the night before, and that he would not allow Rafe Bassett to roar him down. But none of them cared to provoke unnecessarily Bassett’s open enmity, for he was universally recognized as a dangerous man, and when, at last, he swaggered into the room, plainly under the influence of liquor, an uneasy silence fell upon the crowd. The meeting was called to order, and Simpson arose to make a few announcements. He waited until Bassett, evidently spoiling for a fight, swaggered noisily to a chair near the stage. “There is no change in the situation,” he began. “The strike is progressing quietly—” “Too blame quietly,” Bassett broke in. “You’d think we was a lot o’ Sunday school kids by the way we set around with our hands folded, actin’ like sugar wouldn’t melt in our—” “Order! Order!” called the chairman, rapping with his gavel, and Bassett subsided, growling, into his chair. “As I was saying,” Simpson proceeded calmly, “the strike is progressing quietly. One good piece of news I have—the fellows who tried to set fire to the stock-yards have been arrested and turned out to be a couple of saloon bums, who never worked on a railroad, or anywhere else, and of course never belonged to the brotherhood. I’m mighty glad that this effectually clears the brotherhood of any suspicion of being implicated in the affair.” “How do you know they’re the ones?” Bassett demanded. “I understand they have confessed.” “Been given the third degree, I guess. Who’s defendin’ ’em?” “I don’t know, nor care. The brotherhood certainly won’t defend them. If they haven’t any money, counsel for them will be appointed by the court, I suppose, in the usual way.” “And they’ll be railroaded to the pen, also in the usual way,” sneered Bassett. “It makes me sick the way we go back on our friends.” “They’re not our friends,” said Simpson, sharply. “They’re the worst enemies we’ve got. We’re in no way responsible for them nor indebted to them.” “Ain’t we?” and Bassett was on his feet again. “Where’d they git the whiskey they tanked up on afore they tackled the job? Who give it to them?” “I don’t know—some saloon-keeper, probably.” “No, it wasn’t no saloon-keeper,” cried Bassett, “an’ you know it. What would a saloon-keeper be givin’ away good whiskey fer? An’ more’n that, where’d they git the twenty dollars that was found on each of ’em? Did a saloon-keeper give ’em that, too?” “Since you seem to know so much about it,” said Simpson, with ominous calmness, “suppose you tell us.”