obs. As at times
the police lines tightened and the negroes came out for more freight,
thousands of ominous eyes looked on. Standing here at one such time, I
saw a negro striker pass. His head was down and he walked quickly--for
race feeling had begun.

The first ship sailed that evening. Tens of thousands watched her sail.
And a bitter voice beside me said,

"Laughing ain't going to be enough."

Among men on strike there are two kinds of attitudes toward those who
take their places. The first is the scorn of the man who is winning.
"You are a dirty scab," it says. "You're a Judas to the working class
and a thief who is trying to steal my job. But you won't get it, we're
bound to win, and you're barely worth kicking out of the way." The
second is quite a different feeling. In this is the fear of the man who
is losing--and fear, as an English writer has said, is the great mother
of violence. "You _may keep_ my job! And if you do I'll be left with
nothing to live on!" It is this second attitude which is dreaded by
strike leaders, for it leads to a loss of all control, to machine guns
and defeat.

With a deepening uneasiness I saw this feeling now appear. Starting in
small groups of men, I saw it spread out over the mass with the speed of
a prairie fire. I felt it that afternoon on the Farm, changing with a
startling speed that sure and mighty giant, the crowd, into a blind
disordered throng, a mottled mass of groups of men angrily discussing
the news. Threats against "scabs" were shouted out, the word "scab"
arose on every side. Bitter things were said against "coons," not only
"scabs" but "all of 'em, God damn 'em!" There were hints of violence and
open threats of sabotage, things done to dock machinery.

But presently, by slow degrees, as though by a deep instinct groping for
the giant spirit that had been its life and soul, I felt the crowd now
gather itself. Slowly the cries all died away and all eyes turned to the
leader. Facing them with arms upraised, Marsh stood on the speakers'
pile, his own face imperturbable, his own voice absolutely sure.

"Boys," he said, when silence had come, "one lonesome ship has gone to
sea--so badly loaded, they tell me, that she ain't got even a chance in
a storm. She was loaded by scabs."

A savage storm of "booh's" burst forth. He waited until it subsided and
then continued quietly:

"We have no use for scabs, black or white. But we have use for strikers,
_both_ black and w