rmation of the news his daughter had brought him. She could not
bear watching his face as he listened. She turned her back, stood
gazing out at the window. Her father, beside himself, was shrieking
into the telephone curses, denunciations, impossible orders. The one
emergency against which he had not provided was the union's ending the
strike. When you have struck the line of battle of a general, however
able and self-controlled, in the one spot where he has not arranged a
defense, you have thrown him--and his army--into a panic. Some of the
greatest tactitians in history have given way in those circumstances;
so, Martin Hastings' utter loss of self-control and of control of the
situation only proves that he had his share of human nature. He had
provided against the unexpected; he had not provided against the
impossible.

Jane let her father rave on into the telephone until his voice grew
hoarse and squeaky. Then she turned and said: "Now, father--what's
the use of making yourself sick? You can't do any good--can you?" She
laid one hand on his arm, with the other hand caressed his head. "Hang
up the receiver and think of your health."

"I don't care to live, with such goings-on," declared he. But he hung
up the receiver and sank back in his chair, exhausted.

"Come out on the porch," she went on, tugging gently at him. "The air's
stuffy in here."

He rose obediently. She led him to the veranda and seated him
comfortably, with a cushion in his back at the exact spot at which it
was most comfortable. She patted his shrunken cheeks, stood off and
looked at him.

"Where's your sense of humor?" she cried. "You used to be able to
laugh when things went against you. You're getting to be as solemn and
to take yourself as seriously as Davy Hull."

The old man made a not unsuccessful attempt to smile. "That there
Victor Dorn!" said he. "He'll be the death of me, yet."

"What has he done now?" said Jane, innocently.

Hastings rubbed his big bald forehead with his scrawny hand. "He's
tryin' to run this town--to run it to the devil," replied he, by way of
evasion.

"Something's got to be done about him--eh?" observed she, in a fine
imitation of a business-like voice.

"Something WILL be done," retorted he.

Jane winced--hid her distress--returned to the course she had mapped
out for herself. "I hope it won't be something stupid," said she.
Then she seated herself and went on. "Father--did you ever