"Do you think you could drive a man like Mr. Coddington that way?" It was Carmachel who spoke. "You can walk out, all of you, if you choose.

It would make no difference to him. If he has decided it is best to put up that tannery he'll put it up. A strike would do you no good and as a result your families would be without food and a roof over their heads all winter. You're a fine man, Ristori! Coddington pays you well. You take his money and are glad to get a job from him; then the first minute anything does not go to suit you you turn against him and cry: Strike! You don't know what loyalty means. Hasn't Coddington always been square with you? Hasn't he paid you good wages? Hasn't he added an extra bit to your envelope at Christmas? I'll not strike!"

"What would you have us do?" was Ristori's hot retort. "Would you have us sit by like dumb things and let him do anything to us he pleases?"

"Coddington is a reasonable man," Carmachel replied. "Why don't some of you talk decently with him about all this?"

"Aye! And lose our jobs for our pains!" sneered a swarthy Armenian.

A shout went up.

"A strike! A strike!" yelled a hundred voices.

"Would you strike and see your families starve?" cried Nat Jackson. "I have a mother to support. I care more for her than for the field and everything on it. I shall not strike."

"You white-livered young idiot!" roared some one in the crowd.

"I tell you, men," went on Carmachel, "there is nothing to be gained by striking. Get together some of your best speakers from each factory and let them ask an interview of Mr. Coddington--now--this afternoon--before anything more is done about the new factory."

"He'll not grant it!"

"Hasn't he always been fair with you?"

"Yes!"

"Aye!"

"So he has!"

"He has that!"

Grudgingly the workmen admitted it, even the most rabid of them.

Drawn by an irresistible impulse Peter elbowed his way into the midst of the workmen.

"I am sure Mr. Coddington will listen to you," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed earnestly.

"Choose your men and let them go to him. Give him a chance to see your side of it. He will be reasonable--I know he will."

"It's the Little Giant," said one man to another.

"Put it to vote," urged Peter. "Come! How many are for going to Mr.

Coddington? You fellows do not want a strike. Think what it would mean!"

"The lad's right. Up with the hands!"

It was a crisis.

Peter trembled from head to foot.

A few hands were raised, then slowly a few more; more came. All over the field they shot into the air.

"And now choose your representatives," called Peter quickly, dreading lest the tide of sentiment should turn.

"Carmachel! He doesn't seem to fear losing his job," piped a voice. "Put on Carmachel!"

"And Jackson; he said he would not strike anyway," called somebody else.

"Bryant is a good fellow! Put Bryant on."

"Put on some men from the other factories, too," demanded a Pole aggressively.

A committee of twelve were chosen.

"Add the Little Giant as the thirteenth--just for luck!" laughed a knee-staker.

There was a cry of approval.

"The Little Giant! The Little Giant!" rose in a chorus.

"No! No, indeed! I couldn't!" Peter protested violently.

"Of course you could!" contradicted Carmachel. "Come, come! You mustn't be so modest, Strong. You are with us for keeping the field, aren't you?"

"Yes. But there are reasons that you don't understand why I couldn't----"

"Pooh! What reasons?"

"I can't tell you. But I couldn't possibly go to Mr. Coddington with the men--I couldn't, really, Carmachel," reiterated Peter miserably.

"Nonsense! The only question is this--is your sympathy with us or isn't it?"

"Of course it is!" There was no doubting the fervor of the avowal.

"Then that settles it. Although you have come here but recently, Strong, we all consider you a friend and count you as one of ourselves. You'll stand by the bunch, won't you?" Carmachel scrutinized Peter sharply.

"Yes, I will. But you don't understand the circ.u.mstances or you would never urge me to----"

Carmachel interrupted him.

"I guess I understand the circ.u.mstances better than you think," returned he, dryly. "Mr. Coddington got you your place, I've heard. Naturally you feel under obligations to him for his kindness. That's all very well.

But has he ever been near you since he put you into the tannery? No! He sits in his office and opens his mail and you are just a boy in the works. Isn't that so? What's to hinder you from going respectfully to him with the rest of us and calling to his attention something which seems to us an injustice? You said yourself it was the best plan. You pleaded with us to do it."

"I know."

"Then why won't you go yourself? You're not a coward, Strong, nor, unless I greatly mistake, are you the sort of chap who would point out to others a path he wouldn't dare follow himself."

"I'll go!" cried Peter suddenly. "I'll go, but I will not do any speaking."

"n.o.body wants you to speak," growled an Italian who had been standing near and who had overheard the conversation. "Bryant, Carmachel, and the older men will do the speaking. It's their place."