l sides other voices broke out. Then from his cell our musical friend
again started up the singing, his strained tenor voice rising high over
all. The song rose in volume, grew more intense.

"Heigh! Quit that noise!" a policeman shouted.

"Aw, let 'em alone," said another. "They'll soon work it off."

But we seemed to be only working it up. Up and up, song followed song,
and then short impassioned speeches came out of cells, and there was
applause. A voice asked each one of us to name his nationality, and we
found we were Americans, Irish, Scotch and Germans, Italians and
Norwegians, and three of us were Lascars and one of us was a Coolie.
Then there were cheers for the working class all over the world, and
after that a call for more singing. And now, as one of the songs died
away, we heard from the woman's part of the jail the young girls singing
in reply.

And slowly as I listened to those songs that rose and swelled and beat
against those walls of steel, I felt once more the presence of that
great spirit of the crowd.

"That spirit will go on," I thought. "No jail can stop the thing it
feels!"

And at last with a deep, warm certainty I felt myself where I belonged.

CHAPTER XVII

Early in the evening I was taken out to the visitor's room, and there I
found Eleanore's father. When he saw me, Dillon smiled.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked. "You're not in the Bastille--or
even Libby Prison. You're in the Jefferson Market Jail."

"It hasn't felt that way," I said.

"Probably not. But it is that way, and there's Eleanore to be thought
of."

"Eleanore will understand."

I saw his features tighten. I noticed now that his face was drawn, as
though he, too, had been through a good deal.

"Yes," he said, "she understands. But it's a bit tough on her, isn't it?
Jail is not quite in her line."

I felt my throat contracting:

"I know all that. I'm sorry enough--on her account----"

"Then let's get out of this," he said. "I've brought you bail. No use
staying in here all night."

"None at all," I agreed. "I want to get back to the waterfront. We're
going to issue an answer to this. They'll need me for the writing."

Dillon watched me a moment.

"You won't be allowed to do that," he said. "They're under martial law
down there."

I looked up at him quickly:

"The troops are here?"

"Yes," he replied, and there was a pause.

"These arrests, this riot," I said a little huskily. "Weren't