The Nine-Tenths Part 32

"You've made a mistake, Mr. Blaine."

"It isn't the first one."

"Let me tell you something--"

"I will let you."

Marrin spoke with repression.

"Next time--don't attack both the boss and the men. It's bad policy.

Take sides."

"Oh, I did take sides," said Joe, lightly. "I'm against anything treacherous."

Marrin exploded.

"Well, you'll get yours! And let me tell you something! I've a good mind to sue you for libel and shut up your shop."

Joe rose, and there was a dangerous light in his eyes. His hands were open at his sides, but they twitched a little.

"Then," said Joe, "I'll make it worth your while. If you don't want to be helped out, _get out_!"

"Very well," sputtered Marrin, and turned, twirling his cane, and made an upright exit.

The sad Slate was paralyzed; Billy was joyous.

But Joe strode into the kitchen, where his mother was quietly reading at the window.

"What is it, Joe?"

"Mother," he said, "that fellow Marrin was in threatening to sue me for libel."

"Could it hurt you?"

"It might. Speaking the truth is always libelous."

Joe's mother spoke softly.

"Your father lost an arm in the war. You can't expect to fight without facing danger. And besides," she laughed easily, "you can always get a job as a printer, Joe."

Joe paced up and down moodily, his hands clasped behind his back.

"If it was only myself--" he murmured, greatly troubled. "I wonder where Sally is this morning."

"Didn't she come, Joe?"

"No. Not a word from her. I'd hate her to be sick."

"Hadn't you better send over and see?"

"I'll wait a bit yet. And yet--" he sighed, "I just need Sally now."

His mother glanced at him keenly.

"Sally's a wonder," she murmured.

"She is--" He spoke a little irritably. "Why couldn't she have come this morning?"

There were quick steps, and Billy rushed in, his eyes large, his cheeks pale.

"Mr. Joe!" he said breathlessly.

"Yes, Billy."

"There's a lot of men out on the street, and they're beginning to fire s...o...b..a.l.l.s!"

Nathan Slate came in, a scarecrow of fear, teeth chattering.

"Oh, Mr. Joe," he wailed. "Oh, Mr. Joe!"

Joe's mother rose, and spoke under her breath.

"Mr. Slate, sit down at once!"

Slate collapsed on a chair, trembling.

Joe felt as if a fork of lightning had transfixed him--a sharp white fire darting from head and feet and arms to his heart, and whirling there in a spinning ball. He spoke quietly:

"I'll go and see."

It seemed long before he got to the front window. Looking out through the snow-dim pane, he saw the street filled with gesticulating men. He saw some of the faces of the forty-four, but mingled with these were other faces--the faces of toughs and thugs, ominous, brutal, menacing.

In a flash he realized that he had been making enemies in the district as well as friends, and it struck him that these were the criminal element in the political gang, hangers-on, floaters, the saloon contingent, who were maddened by his attempt to lead the people away from the rotten bosses. As if by magic they had emerged from the underworld, as they always do in times of trouble, and he knew that the excited East Side group was now flavored with mob-anarchy--that he had to deal, not with men whose worst weapon was words, but with brutes who l.u.s.ted for broken heads. Some of the faces he knew--he had seen them hanging about saloons. And he saw, too, in that swift scrutiny, that many of the men had weapons; some had seized crowbars and sledges from a near-by street tool-chest which was being used by laborers; others had sticks; some had stones. An ominous sound came from the mob, something winged with doom and death, like the rattling of a venomous snake, with head raised to strike, ready fangs and glittering eyes. He could catch in that paralyzing hum words tossed here and there: "Smash his presses!

Clean him out! Lynch him, lynch him! Kill--kill--kill!--"

A human beast had coiled at his door, myriad-headed, insane, bloodthirsty, all-powerful--the mob, that terror of civilization, that sudden reversion in ma.s.s to a state of savagery. It boded ill for Joe Blaine. He had a bitter, cynical thought:

"So this is what comes of spreading the truth--of really trying to help--of living out an ideal!"

A s...o...b..ll hit the window before him, a soft crash and spread of drip, and there rose from the mob a fiendish yell that seemed itself a power, making the heart pound, dizzying the brain.

Joe turned. His mother was standing close to him, white as paper, but her eyes flashing. She had not dared speak to Joe, knowing that this fight was his and that he had pa.s.sed out of her hands.

He spoke in a low, pulsing voice.

"Mother, I want you to stay in back!"

She looked at him, as if drinking her fill of his face.