“They want t’ go an’ come as they please—between the freight-house an’ them saloons over there. They say they’re bein’ kept prisoners.” “But that’s all nonsense!” “Don’t I know it,” said Reddy, scornfully, gazing at the lighted windows across the yards which marked the chief dispatcher’s office. “But any excuse’ll do when a man’s lookin’ fer trouble. I guess the strikers had a pointer this was comin’—that’s the reason they’ve been so quiet.” “You mean you think there’s somebody tippin’ things off to them?” “Yes; but I ain’t dead sure, yet,” answered Reddy, knocking out his pipe. “Drop in here every evenin’ an’ see me, Jack,” he added. “I’d like t’ talk things over with ye. I must be gittin’ back. Hello, there goes the messenger,” he went on, as a figure strode from the freight-shed across the yards. “Good-night.” “Good-night,” Jack answered, and he sat watching the messenger. He saw him mount the stair that led to the division offices, and, a few minutes later, saw him come down again, accompanied by Allan West. He watched them cross the yards towards him, and mount the platform, heard a door open and shut, and all was still. “If I could only help!” he murmured to himself, with drawn lips. “But I can’t—I can’t! An’ it’s a hard fight!” * * * * * Meanwhile, inside the freight-house a queer scene was enacting. As must be the case when any body of men are thrown together, a leader had developed, or had arrogated to himself the rights of leadership. In this instance, the leader, strangely enough, was not one of the larger or older men, but a small fellow whose livid pock-marked face and shifty eyes told of life in city slums and not in God’s open air—told, too, of a soul as well as body infected—in a word, Hummel. The personnel of the men had changed somewhat during the afternoon. Ten or twelve crews had been sent out, and as many had come in, but there was still present a majority of those who had arrived the night before. Hummel, of course, had been assigned to no run, and those that remained with him were the undesirables, the ones against whose names Allan had placed a check-mark. Among these, Hummel had been working quietly all day, talking to them first singly, then in groups of two and three, and finally, when they had finished supper, he had spoken out boldly. “I don’t know how you fellers feel about it,” he said, getting to his feet and pounding on the table to attract their attention, “but I feel a good deal as though I was in a lock-up. Oh, I ain’t no hypocrite—I knows how a lock-up feels, and I guess I ain’t the only one here as does. But I didn’t hire out to this here road t’ be locked up, an’ I won’t stand it. This is a free country—” “Now, see here, brother,” interposed Stanley, who had come hurrying up, “you ain’t locked up, an’ you know it. We’re treatin’ you right. We’re givin’ you good grub an’ a good bed an’ we’ve got a lookout jest to make sure you ain’t interfered with.”