an orgy of hatred and blood-lust.  Everest’s arms were pinioned, blows, kicks and curses rained upon him from every side.  One business man clawed strips of bleeding flesh from his face.  A woman slapped his battered cheek with a well groomed hand.  A soldier tried to lunge a hunting rifle at the helpless logger; the crowd was too thick.  He bumped them aside with the butt of the gun to get room.  Then he crashed the muzzle with full force into Everest’s mouth.  Teeth were broken and blood flowed profusely.

A rope appeared from somewhere.  “Let’s finish the job!” cried a voice.  The rope was placed about the neck of the logger.  “You haven’t got guts enough to lynch a man in the daytime,” was all he said.

At this juncture a woman brushed through the crowd and took the rope from Everest’s neck.  Looking into the distorted faces of the mob she cried indignantly, “You are curs and cowards to treat a man like that!”

There may be human beings in Centralia after all.

Wesley Everest was taken to the city jail and thrown without ceremony upon the cement floor of the “bull pen.”  In the surrounding cells were his comrades who had been arrested in the union hall.  Here he lay in a wet heap, twitching with agony.  A tiny bright stream of blood gathered at his side and trailed slowly along the floor.  Only an occasional quivering moan escaped his torn lips as the hours slowly passed by.

“Here Is Your Man”

Later, at night, when it was quite dark, the lights of the jail were suddenly snapped off.  At the same instant the entire city was plunged in darkness.  A clamour of voices was heard beyond the walls.  There was a hoarse shout as the panel of the outer door was smashed in.  “Don’t shoot, men,” said the policemen on guard, “Here is your man.”  It was night now, and the business men had no further reason for not lynching the supposed secretary.  Everest heard their approaching foot steps in the dark.  He arose drunkenly to meet them.  “Tell the boys I died for my class,” he whispered brokenly to the union men in the cells.  These were the last words he uttered in the jail.  There were sounds of a short struggle and of many blows.  Then a door slammed and, in a short time the lights were switched on.  The darkened city was again illuminated at the same moment.  Outside three luxurious automobiles were purring them selves out of sight in the darkness.

The only man who had protested the lynching at the last moment was William Scales.  “Don’t kill him, men,” he is said to have begged of the mob.  But it was too late.  “If you don’t go through with this you’re an I.W.W. too,” they told him.  Scales could not calm the evil passions he had helped to arouse.

But how did it happen that the lights were turned out at such an opportune time?  Could it be that city officials were working hand in glove with the lynch mob?