The President of the Congress of Federated Trades, who was one of the committee, had hitherto been silent. He was an iron worker by trade, who, in twenty years of residence in San Francisco, had almost lost the Scotch burr which, as a lad, he had brought with him from Glasgow. In moments of feeling or excitement it returned to him. He addressed himself to French:— “Oh mon,” said he, “but thou art hard; and thou art a fool as well! ’Tis a mad wolf that cooms oot of the mountain shingle to make a trail through the heather for the hoonds. Gin ye hae no mercy for God’s poor, hae ye no fear frae the divil’s dogs that your words may loosen on ye? Dinna ye ken there be ten, aye, twenty thousand men on the sand lots this blessed Sabbath morn, who love ye not, and who, if they get your words just spoken, and get them they maun, unless ye recall them, would, if they but reach ye, and reach ye they will, for a’ your guards and guns, would send ye to God’s throne wi’ your bad heart a’ reekin’?” “Go and tell the loafers and brawlers of the sand lots exactly what I have said,” shrieked French. “It is what I mean to say, and mean for them to hear. If you don’t take the message I will send it through the press. Let them do their worst. I do not fear the blackguards, and I am ready for any who choose to visit me,” and the old man snapped his fingers as the members of the committee sorrowfully departed. Half an hour later a speaker who was addressing an audience of thirty thousand people from the central stand at the sand lots, paused as he saw the President of the Congress of Federated Trades making his way through the crowd. The orator had been commenting on the resolutions adopted by the Workers’ Congress the previous night, and had been congratulating the people upon the approaching end of the distress occasioned by the long strike, and on the days of peace and plenty which were in store for them, and it was with beaming faces and glad shouts that the multitude welcomed the man who was to announce to them a resumption of their labors in factory and shop. “My friends,” said the tall Scotchman, “I have just come from an interview with Lorin French, and I am vara vara sorry to bear you the message with which I am charged. He bids me tell you that the notice he gave to us all before the strike begun shall be carried out, and that no man who quit work then shall ever again have work in this city, if he can help it.”