rty, sat silently in his place,
though frequently called upon to defend the fighters. As their chief
went on telling them of the inevitable ruin that awaited the strikers,
the more noisy began to accuse him of selling them out. One man wanted
to know what he got for the job, but the master, feeling secure in that
he was doing his duty, gave no heed to what his traducers were saying.
Amid all the turmoil Cowels sat so quietly that some of the more
suspicious began to guess, audibly, that he was "in with the play." But
there was no play, and if there had been Cowels would not have been in
with it. Cowels was thinking. Suddenly he leaped upon his chair and
yelled: "Throw 'im out!" He did not use the finger of scorn upon the
master, or even look in his direction. He merely glared at the audience
and commanded it to "Throw 'im out!"

"We are fighting a losing fight," repeated the chief, "and you who fight
hardest here will be first to fall," and he looked at Cowels as he
spoke. "It could not be pleasant to me, even with your respectful
attention, to break this news to you. I do it because it is my duty. But
now, having said what I had to say, let me assure you that if a majority
of you elect to continue the fight, I will lead you, and I promise that
every man of you shall have his fill."

This last declaration was rather a cooler for Cowels. It took a vast
amount of wind out of his sails, but he was on his feet and so had to
make a speech. He was not very abusive, but managed to make it plain
that there were others ready and able to lead if their leader failed to
do his duty. When he had succeeded in getting his train of thought out
over the switches his hearers, especially the no-surrenderers, began to
enthuse. His speech was made picturesque by the introduction of short
rhymes, misquotations from dead poets, and tales that had never been
told in type. "If," he exclaimed dramatically, "to use a Shakesperian
simile, the galled wench be jaded, let him surrender his sword to some
one worthy of the steel."

The orator worked the Shakesperian pedal so hard that some of his
hearers expressed a desire to know more about the distinguished poet.
Finally, when he became too deep for them, a man with a strong clear
voice shouted a single word--the name of a little animal whose departure
from a sinking ship makes sailors seek the shore--and Cowels closed like
a snuff-box.

Now the casual observer would say of the great orator: he h