Once I asked a farmer for work and he set me to digging post
holes and every time a man came by I hid myself in the grass. 'What you
hidin' fur?' the farmer asked. Then I told him that I didn't belong to
the Union.

"'What Union?' says he.

"'The post-hole Union' says I--'in fact, I don't belong to any Union.'

"'They ain't no post-hole Union,' says the farmer indignantly, 'an' you
know it. What you're givin' me is hog-wash--you've been stealin'. Here's
a quarter fur what you've done--now git.'

"I tried to reason with him, but he only shook his thick head and began
whistling for his dog, and I got. Yes, pardner, it seems to me that the
tyranny of organized capital and the tyranny of organized labor are
close competitors, and in their wake come the twin curses--the
black-list and the boycot. Hand in hand they go, like red liquor and
crime. But you can't right these wrongs the way you're headed now," said
the philosopher. "Everything is against you. Wealth works wonders. The
press, the telephone through which the public talks back to itself, is
hoarse with the repetition of the story of your wrong-doings. Until the
Government puts a limit to the abuses of trusts and monopolies, and
organized labor has learned that there are other interests which have
rights under the Constitution, there will be no peace on earth, no good
will toward man. When the trusts are controlled, and labor submits its
grievances to an impartial, unbiased board of arbitration, then there
will be peace and plenty. The wages that you are now losing and the
money squandered by vulgar and ignorant leaders, will then be used in
building up and beautifying homes. The time thrown away in useless
agitation and in idleness will be spent for the intellectual advancement
of working men, and the millions of money lost in wrecked railroads will
find its way to the pockets of honest investors."

While this lecture, which interested Patsy, was being delivered the two
men had become oblivious of their surroundings, but now the wild cry of
a mob in a neighboring street, the rattle of sticks and stones and the
occasional bark of a six-shooter brought them back to the business
before them.

Wave after wave the rioters rolled against the little band of officers,
but like billows that break upon a stony shore they were forced to roll
back again. Like the naked minions of Montezuma, who hurled themselves
against the armored army of the Spaniards, the strikers and