Part 18

“Because you won't go to work. I'll give every able-bodied man here all the work he wants. Apply at the office of the Consolidated Water Company--now.”

“What's the work?” inquired a man in the crowd.

“Digging trenches for water-pipes. How many men want that work? Hold up hands.”

“It ain't work for human beings in this weather,” snarled the man who had inquired. No hands were raised.

“That's your style!” blazed the big man. The policemen had sauntered into the square and their presence was reassuring. He stood up and began to lecture them.

“And them's the kind of lord dukes that's running this country to-day--own it and run it,” growled a slouchy fellow who stood near the tall young man. “They ain't willing to give a poor man a show.”

“He has just offered you a show--all of you,” stated the young man.

“Yes, a Guinea job for white men.”

“You're picking a poor excuse for being a loafer, my friend.”

“Who says I'm a loafer?”

The young man shot out his hands and grasped the fellow's elbow and hand. The arm was flabby, the palm was soft. He doubled back the fingers and exhibited the palm to the crowd.

“I don't find any labor medals here, men. Is there anybody in the crowd who can show some?” He released the struggling, cursing captive.

“What's labor medals?” inquired a bystander.

The big man was still denouncing them from his car, but the group paid little attention now.

“Callous spots in the place where a working-man ought to wear them. And that place isn't on the tongue.”

“Are you sneering at us because we can't get a job?”

“You're a loafer yourself, and anybody can see it,” declared another.

The young man raised his arms, showing them his palms.

“I carry a few labor medals,” he returned, curtly.

“Why ain't you on your job? The lord dukes won't give you one?”

“When I work and where I work is my own business, so long as I don't beg food at back doors.”

“Do we?”

They had crowded around him and menaced him with murmurings and glowering gaze.

“I should say so,” he replied, giving them an indifferent going-over with his cold eyes. “You carry all the marks.”

Then he shouldered his way out from among them, displaying the air of one who found further discourse unprofitable.

He strolled leisurely in the direction of the big man in the car. The crowd he had left stared after him without presuming to voice taunt or reply; there was something compelling about him.

As Farr approached the automobile its owner stopped talking and stared at the tall stranger with some apprehension. Then the big man beckoned unobtrusively to a policeman. It was evident that Farr was not of the same sort as the ruck of men from among whom he had just emerged, nevertheless he had come from among them. The lordly man in the car had observed him moving in the group, for Farr had loomed above the heads of the others; what he had been saying to the malcontents the big man had not been able to hear, but he guessed.

“Some sort of sneak has been stirring up the fools in this city lately,” the aristocrat informed the officer who came promptly to the side of the car. “Who is this fellow coming?”