hey were gone, he picked up the pencil again, and sat dumbly
waiting, while in his heart he called eagerly across the worlds:
"Mary--Mary, are you there? Do you know? Oh, Mary, Mary!"

The funeral of the young men killed in the shaft house brought a day of
deepening emotion to Harvey. Flags were at half mast and Market Street
was draped in crape. The stores closed at the tolling of bells which
announced the hour of the funeral services. Two hundred automobiles
followed the soldiers who escorted the bodies to the cemetery, and when
the bugle blew taps, tears stood in thousands of eyes.

The moaning of the great-throated regimental band, the shrilling of the
fife and the booming of the drum; the blare of the bugle that sounded
taps stirred the chords of hate, and the town came back from burying its
dead a vessel of wrath. In vain had John Dexter in his sermon over Fred
Kollander tried to turn the town from its bitterness by preaching from
the text, "Ye are members one of another," and trying to point the way
to charity. The town would have no charity.

The tragedy of the shaft house and the imprisonment of Grant Adams had
staged for the day all over the nation in the first pages of the
newspapers an interesting drama. Such a man as Grant Adams was a figure
whose jail sentence under military law for defending the rights of a
free press, free speech, free assemblage and trial by jury, was good for
a first page position in every newspaper in the country--whatever bias
its editorial columns might take against him and his cause. Millions of
eyes turned to look at the drama. But there were hundreds among the
millions who saw the drama in the newspapers and who decided they would
like to see it in reality. Being foot loose, they came. So when the
funeral procession was hurrying back into Harvey and the policemen and
soldiers were dispersing to their posts, they fell upon half a dozen
travel-stained strangers in the court house yard addressing the loafers
there. Promptly the strangers were haled before the provost marshal, and
promptly landed in jail. But other strangers appeared on the streets
from time to time as the freight trains came clanging through town, and
by sundown a score of young men were in the town lockup. They were
happy-go-lucky young blades; rather badly in need of a bath and a
barber, but they sang lustily in the calaboose and ate heartily and with
much experience of prison fare. One read his paperbound Tolsto