rried. He had always been kind and good natured. She remembered the
Friday night, after a City Hall band concert, when he had taken her and
two other girls to Tony's Tamale Grotto on Thirteenth street. And after
that they had all gone to Pabst's Cafe and drunk a glass of beer before
they went home. It was impossible that this could be the same Chester
Johnson. And as she looked, she saw the round-bellied leader, still
wedged by the neck between the pickets, draw a revolver with his
free hand, and, squinting horribly sidewise, press the muzzle against
Chester's side. She tried to scream a warning. She did scream, and
Chester looked up and saw her. At that moment the revolver went off, and
he collapsed prone upon the body of the scab. And the bodies of three
men hung on her picket fence.

Anything could happen now. Quite without surprise, she saw the strikers
leaping the fence, trampling her few little geraniums and pansies into
the earth as they fled between Mercedes' house and hers. Up Pine street,
from the railroad yards, was coming a rush of railroad police and
Pinkertons, firing as they ran. While down Pine street, gongs clanging,
horses at a gallop, came three patrol wagons packed with police. The
strikers were in a trap. The only way out was between the houses and
over the back yard fences. The jam in the narrow alley prevented them
all from escaping. A dozen were cornered in the angle between the front
of her house and the steps. And as they had done, so were they done by.
No effort was made to arrest. They were clubbed down and shot down to
the last man by the guardians of the peace who were infuriated by what
had been wreaked on their brethren.

It was all over, and Saxon, moving as in a dream, clutching the banister
tightly, came down the front steps. The round-bellied leader still
leered at her and fluttered one hand, though two big policemen were
just bending to extricate him. The gate was off its hinges, which seemed
strange, for she had been watching all the time and had not seen it
happen.

Bert's eyes were closed. His lips were blood-flecked, and there was a
gurgling in his throat as if he were trying to say something. As she
stooped above him, with her handkerchief brushing the blood from his
cheek where some one had stepped on him, his eyes opened. The old
defiant light was in them. He did not know her. The lips moved, and
faintly, almost reminiscently, he murmured, "The last of the Mohegans,
the las