their leaders out on bail. In
Washington a House committee was striving still to compel arbitration.
Everywhere the more moderate spirits were drawing together, trying to
work out something safe.

But these people did not know this. They were in their tenements, they
were scattered far apart. They only knew how they had been clubbed, that
three had been killed and many more wounded, and that now the troops
were here. And the more fiery ones among them were feeling only one
thing now, that when you are hit you must hit back, you must show you're
not scared, you must show you're a man.

And so on the next morning, no women and no children but huge, silent
throngs of men drifted out of the tenements down to the docks and moved
slowly along the sentry lines.

The chance to show they were not afraid came late in the afternoon. The
clear, sweet call of a bugle came floating gaily on the air, then the
long, hard roll of drums, and from their camp on the Farm the troops
came on the double-quick up along the waterfront. Now thousands of
strikers were running that way. From the foot of a city street across
the wide open space to a pier the militia formed in two double lines,
each line facing outward. Then down that street came mounted police and
behind them a score of trucks loaded with freight.

At first I had hopes that the mass would not move. But out of the
silence came angry shouts and those behind pushed forward. Those in
front were pressed close up to the sharp lines of bayonets, were prodded
savagely by the troops. Militia youngsters but half trained, in two thin
lines opposing what appeared to them a furious sea of faces, fists and
angry cries--no wonder they were nervous. Bricks came flying from all
sides and even heavy paving-stones, and then a few pistol shots out of
the mass. I saw a militia man drop on one knee and slowly topple over. I
saw an excited young officer shout at his men and wave his sword. I saw
long rows of guns make quick rhythmic movements, then level straight
out, and there were two long flashes of fire.

Disordered throngs were running now. Only a few men here and there
turned to fire their pistols or to shout back frenzied, quivering oaths.
Behind them a few soldiers were still shooting without orders. Near the
sand-pile on which I stood I saw a young militia man enough like that
little shoe-clerk to have been his brother. His face was white and his
eyes wild, he was panting, pumping his leve