Soon after dinner the kidnapped committee arrived, bedraggled in body and weary in soul. They inquired for Johann Hartman, and were sent up to the room, where there followed a painful scene. Eight men and a woman who had ventured an act of heroism and been made the victims of a crime could not easily be persuaded to see their efforts and sacrifices thrown on the dump-heap, nor were they timid in expressing their opinions of those who were betraying them. “You been tryin' to get us out!” cried Tim Rafferty. “Ever since I can remember you been at my old man to help you—an' here, when we do what you ask, you throw us down!”
“We never asked you to go on strike,” said Moylan.
“No, that's true. You only asked us to pay dues, so you fellows could have fat salaries.”
“Our salaries aren't very fat,” replied the young leader, patiently. “You'd find that out if you investigated.”
“Well, whatever they are, they go on, while ours stop. We're on the streets, we're done for. Look at us—and most of us has got families, too! I got an old mother an' a lot of brothers and sisters, an' my old man done up an' can't work. What do you think's to become of us?”
“We'll help you out a little, Rafferty—”
“To hell with you!” cried Tim. “I don't want your help! When I need charity, I'll go to the county. They're another bunch of grafters, but they don't pretend to be friends to the workin' man.”
Here was the thing Tom Olson had told Hal at the outset—the workingmen bedevilled, not knowing whom to trust, suspecting the very people who most desired to help them. “Tim,” he put in, “there's no use talking like that. We have to learn patience—”
And the boy turned upon Hal. “What do you know about it? It's all a joke to you. You can go off and forget it when you get ready. You've got money, they tell me!”
Hal felt no resentment at this; it was what he heard from his own conscience. “It isn't so easy for me as you think, Tim. There are other ways of suffering besides not having money—”
“Much sufferin' you'll do—with your rich folks!” sneered Tim.
There was a murmur of protest from others of the committee.
“Good God, Rafferty!” broke in Moylan. “We can't help it, man—we're just as helpless as you!”
“You say you're helpless—but you don't even try!”
“Try? Do you want us to back a strike that we know hasn't a chance? You might as well ask us to lie down and let a load of coal run over us. We can't win, man! I tell you we can't win! We'd only be throwing away our organisation!”
Moylan became suddenly impassioned. He had seen a dozen sporadic strikes in this district, and many a dozen young strikers, homeless, desolate, embittered, turning their disappointment on him. “We might support you with............