bs.

"It was wrong," she ventured finally.

"They killed Bert," he countered. "An' a lot of others. An' Frank Davis.
Did you know he was dead? Had his whole lower jaw shot away--died in the
ambulance before they could get him to the receiving hospital. There was
never so much killin' at one time in Oakland before."

"But it was their fault," she contended. "They began it. It was murder."

Billy did not reply, but she heard him mutter hoarsely. She knew he said
"God damn them"; but when she asked, "What?" he made no answer. His eyes
were deep with troubled clouds, while the mouth had hardened, and all
his face was bleak.

To her it was a heart-stab. Was he, too, like the rest? Would he kill
other men who had families, like Bert, and Frank Davis, and Chester
Johnson had killed? Was he, too, a wild beast, a dog that would snarl
over a bone?

She sighed. Life was a strange puzzle. Perhaps Mercedes Higgins was
right in her cruel statement of the terms of existence.

"What of it," Billy laughed harshly, as if in answer to her unuttered
questions. "It's dog eat dog, I guess, and it's always ben that way.
Take that scrap outside there. They killed each other just like the
North an' South did in the Civil War."

"But workingmen can't win that way, Billy. You say yourself that it
spoiled their chance of winning."

"I suppose not," he admitted reluctantly. "But what other chance they've
got to win I don't see. Look at 'us. We'll be up against it next."

"Not the teamsters?" she cried.

He nodded gloomily.

"The bosses are cuttin' loose all along the line for a high old time.
Say they're goin' to beat us to our knees till we come crawlin' back
a-beggin' for our jobs. They've bucked up real high an' mighty what of
all that killin' the other day. Havin' the troops out is half the fight,
along with havin' the preachers an' the papers an' the public behind
'em. They're shootin' off their mouths already about what they're goin'
to do. They're sure gunning for trouble. First, they're goin' to hang
Chester Johnson an' as many more of the fifteen as they can. They say
that flat. The Tribune, an' the Enquirer an' the Times keep sayin' it
over an over every day. They're all union-hustin' to beat the band. No
more closed shop. To hell with organized labor. Why, the dirty little
Intelligencer come out this morning an' said that every union official
in Oakland ought to be run outa town or stretched up. Fine, eh? You bet
it's fine