him of shirking, of dissatisfaction and continued
trouble-making.

This labor trouble was no new thing at Black Rock, and had existed
practically since the beginning of the work on the lumber contract six
months before Peter had been employed. But it was not long before Peter
discovered through Jesse Brown, whose confidence he had gained, that
there were agitators in the camp, undoubtedly receiving their
inspiration and pay from sources inimical to all capital in the abstract
and to all order and decency at Black Rock in the concrete, who were
fomenting the unrest and dissatisfaction among the men. In order to
investigate the difficulties personally Peter went down to the camp and
lived there for a time, bunking with the men and listening to their
stories, winning some of them to his side and tracing as far as he could
the troubles to their sources, two men named Flynn and Jacobi. He
discharged these two men and sent them out of the camp over Wells's
protest. But even then he had a sense of failure. The trouble was deeper
than was manifest upon the surface. No mere raise in wages would clear
it away. It was born of the world's sickness, with which the men from
the cities had been inoculated.

One night while he sat in the bunk-house smoking a pipe and talking with
Jesse Brown, Shad Wells suddenly appeared in the doorway, framed against
the darkness. Shad's gaze and Peter's met--then Peter's glance turned to
Shad's companion. As this man saw Peter he turned his head and went down
the length of the bunk-house. Peter got up at once, followed him and
faced him. The man now wore a dark beard, but there was no mistake. It
was the fellow of the black mustache--the stranger whom Peter had seen
in the Pennsylvania Station in New York, the same man he had caught
prowling some weeks ago around his cabin in the darkness.

Peter stared at him for a moment but the man would not meet his gaze.

"Who are you?" asked Peter at last. And then, as he made no reply,
"What were you doing prowling around my cabin up by the creek?"

The stranger shook his head from side to side.

"No understan'," he muttered.

At this point, Shad Wells, who had followed with Jesse Brown, came in
between them.

"That's right, Nichols," he growled. "No understan'--He's a 'guinea.'"
To Wells all men were "guineas" who didn't speak his own language.

"Italian? Are you? French? Spanish? Slovak?"

Each time the man shook his head. And then, with an inspi