Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car.
Hurstwood winced the least bit.
The real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been.
Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track.
“They’ve been at work, here, all right,” said one of the policemen.
“We’ll have an argument, maybe,” said the other.
Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped.
He had not done so wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathisers.
“Come off the car, pardner,” said one of the men in a voice meant to be conciliatory.
“You don’t want to take the bread out of another man’s mouth, do you?”
Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to do.
“Stand back,” yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform railing.
“Clear out of this, now.
Give the man a chance to do his work.”
“Listen, pardner,” said the leader, ignoring the policeman and addressing Hurstwood. “We’re all working men, like yourself.
If you were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we’ve been, you wouldn’t want any one to come in and take your place, would you?
You wouldn’t want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would you?”
“Shut her off! shut her off!” urged the other of the policemen, roughly.
“Get out of this, now,” and he jumped the railing and landed before the crowd and began shoving.
Instantly the other officer was down beside him.
“Stand back, now,” they yelled.
“Get out of this.
What the hell do you mean?
Out, now.”
It was like a small swarm of bees.
“Don’t shove me,” said one of the strikers, determinedly.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Get out of this!” cried the officer, swinging his club.
“I’ll give ye a bat on the sconce.
Back, now.”
“What the hell!” cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths.
Crack came an officer’s club on his forehead.
He blinked his eyes blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and staggered back.
In return, a swift fist landed on the officer’s neck.
Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about madly with his club.
He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters.
No severe damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach.
They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered.
“Where is the conductor?” yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by Hurstwood.
The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more astonishment than fear.
“Why don’t you come down here and get these stones off the track?” inquired the officer.
“What you standing there for?
Do you want to stay here all day?
Get down.”
Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the nervous conductor as if he had been called.
“Hurry up, now,” said the other policeman.
Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad.
Hurstwood worked with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by the work.
“Ah, you scab, you!” yelled the crowd.
“You coward!