It began quietly, as the fateful unexpected so often begins. Children, of all ages and sizes, were playing in the street, and Saxon, by the open front window, was watching them and dreaming day dreams of her child soon to be. The sunshine peacefully down, and a light wind from the bay cooled the air and gave to it a tang of salt. One of the children up Pine Street toward Seventh. All the children ceased playing, and stared and pointed. They formed into groups, the larger boys, of from ten to twelve, by themselves, the older girls anxiously clutching the small children by the hands or them into their arms.  
Saxon could not see the cause of all this, but she could guess when she saw the larger boys rush to the , pick up stones, and into the between the houses. Smaller boys tried to imitate them. The girls, dragging the tots by the arms, banged gates and up the front steps of the small houses. The doors slammed behind them, and the street was , though here and there front shades were aside so that anxious-faced women might peer . Saxon heard the uptown train and snorting as it pulled out from Center Street. Then, from the direction of Seventh, came a , throaty manroar. Still, she could see nothing, and she remembered Mercedes Higgins' words “THEY ARE LIKE DOGS OVER BONES. JOBS ARE BONES, YOU KNOW.”
 
The roar came closer, and Saxon, leaning out, saw a dozen scabs, conveyed by as many special police and Pinkertons, coming down the sidewalk on her side of the street. They came compactly, as if with discipline, while behind, disorderly, yelling confusedly, stooping to pick up rocks, were seventy-five or a hundred of the striking shopmen. Saxon discovered herself trembling with , knew that she must not, and controlled herself. She was helped in this by the conduct of Mercedes Higgins. The old woman came out of her front door, dragging a chair, on which she coolly seated herself on the tiny stoop at the top of the steps.
 
In the hands of the special police were clubs. The Pinkertons carried no visible weapons. The strikers, urging on from behind, seemed content with yelling their rage and threats, and it remained for the children to the conflict. From across the street, between the Olsen and the Isham houses, came a shower of stones. Most of these fell short, though one struck a scab on the head. The man was no more than twenty feet away from Saxon. He reeled toward her front fence, drawing a revolver. With one hand he brushed the blood from his eyes and with the other he discharged the revolver into the Isham house. A Pinkerton seized his arm to prevent a second shot, and dragged him along. At the same instant a wilder roar went up from the strikers, while a volley of stones came from between Saxon's house and Maggie Donahue's. The scabs and their protectors made a stand, drawing revolvers. From their hard, faces—fighting men by profession—Saxon could nothing but bloodshed and death. An elderly man, evidently the leader, lifted a soft felt hat and mopped the from the bald top of his head. He was a large man, very rotund of and helpless looking. His gray beard was stained with of tobacco juice, and he was smoking a cigar. He was stoop-shouldered, and Saxon the dandruff on the collar of his coat.
 
One of the men pointed into the street, and several of his companions laughed. The cause of it was the little Olsen boy, barely four years old, escaped somehow from his mother and toward his economic enemies. In his right he bore a rock so heavy that he could scarcely lift it. With this he feebly threatened them. His little face was convulsed with rage, and he was screaming over and over “Dam scabs! Dam scabs! Dam scabs!” The laughter with which they greeted him only increased his fury. He closer, and with a threw the rock. It fell a six feet beyond his hand.
 
This much Saxon saw, and also Mrs. Olsen rushing into the street for her child. A of revolver-shots from the strikers drew Saxon's attention to the men beneath her. One of them cursed sharply and examined the biceps of his left arm, which hung limply by his side. Down the hand she saw the blood beginning to drip. She knew she ought not remain and watch, but the memory of her fighting was with her, while she no more than normal human fear—if anything, less. She forgot her child in the of battle that had broken upon her quiet street. And she forgot the strikers, and everything else, in at what had happened to the round-bellied, cigar-smoking leader. In some strange way, she knew not how, his head had become wedged at the neck between the tops of the of her fence. His body hung down outside, the knees not quite the ground. His hat had fallen off, and the sun was making an high light on his bald spot. The cigar, too, was gone. She saw he was looking at her. One hand, between the pickets, seemed waving at her, and almost he seemed to at her , though she knew it to be the of deadly pain.
 
Possibly a second, or, at most, two seconds, she gazed at this, when she was aroused by Bert's voice. He was running along the sidewalk, in front of her house, and behind him charged several more strikers, while he shouted: “Come on, you Mohegans! We got 'em nailed to the cross!”
 
In his left hand he carried a pick-handle, in his right a revolver, already empty, for he clicked the vainly around as he ran. With an stop, dropping the pick-handle, he whirled half about, facing Saxon's gate. He was sinking down, when he straightened himself to throw the revolver into the face of a scab who was jumping toward him. Then he began swaying, at the same time at the knees and waist. Slowly, with infinite effort, he caught a gate picket in his right hand, and, still slowly, as if lowering himself, sank down, while past him leaped the crowd of strikers he had led.
 
It was battle without quarter—a . The scabs and their protectors, surrounded, backed against Saxon............