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He is already getting a start with McIver's men. You have some radicals right here on your pay roll, but if you stick with McIver and follow his lead you will come through easily and put these unions where they belong. That's all, I guess," he finished, wearily. "Call in your superintendent." "Just a moment, father," said John Ward, steadily.
McIver's theory, that the Temple was the work of Bantus a few hundred years ago, I think we may put the fact that an admirable drainage system has been unearthed; drainage systems of any kind being more or less unknown to black races of a low order.
Scarcely had they reached the front of the large main building when they were joined by still another crowd that had been gathering in the neighborhood of McIver's factory. Thus, with startling suddenness, a great company of workmen was assembled at the Mill. But a large part of that company had yet to be molded to Vodell's purpose.
The strikers, he declared, could either starve themselves and their families or accept his terms. The agitator was not slow in making capital of McIver's statements. The factory owner depended upon the suffering of the women and children to force the workmen to yield to him.
For a long moment McIver gazed at the old basket maker as if estimating his peculiar strength, then he said with an unintentional touch of contempt in his heavy voice, "So you are the Interpreter." "And you," returned the man in the wheel chair, gently, "are McIver." McIver was startled. "How did you know my name?" "Is McIver's name a secret also?" came the strange reply.
He has no care nothing to eat, even, except the help that the Martins give him. Another case: A widow and four helpless children the man was killed in McIver's factory last week. He died in agony too horrible to describe. The mother is prostrated, the children are hungry. God knows what will become of them this next winter. Another: A workman who was terribly burned in the Mill two years ago.
The first step in my campaign here will be to call out the employees of McIver's factory on a strike. I start with McIver's workmen because his well-known position against the laboring class will make it easy for me to win the sympathy of the public for the strikers." "But," said the Interpreter, "the factory union is working under an agreement with McIver."
"It's worth fifty." Something in the unshaven man's voice suggested that he had once been remotely connected with some sort of a business. The legless man shook his head. "Judas Iscariot," he said, "betrayed the Lord God for thirty. Fanny McIver's scalp isn't worth a cent over twenty-five. You're just a broken-down drunk. It takes a bigger bluffer than you to make me put an insult on Christendom.
In that wretched home in the Flats, little Maggie Whaley smiled in her sleep as she dreamed of her princess lady. The armed guards at their stations around McIver's dark and silent factory kept their watch. The Mill, under the cloud of smoke, sang the deep-voiced song of its industry as the night shift carried on. In the room back of the pool hall, Jake Vodell whispered with two of his disciples.
McIver's eyes flashed with a light that those who sat opposite him in the game of business had often seen. With perfect self-control he said, coolly, "I have been told often that I should come to see you but " he paused and again looked curiously about the room. The Interpreter, smiling, caught up the unfinished sentence.
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