* A typical illustration of the internecine strife that permeated all society.  Men preyed upon one another like ravening wolves.  The big wolves ate the little wolves, and in the social pack Jackson was one of the least of the little wolves.

“He has a wife and children,” I chided.

“So have I a wife and children,” he retorted.  “And there’s not a soul in this world except myself that cares whether they starve or not.”

His face suddenly softened, and he opened his watch and showed me a small photograph of a woman and two little girls pasted inside the case.

“There they are.  Look at them.  We’ve had a hard time, a hard time.  I had hoped to send them away to the country if I’d won Jackson’s case.  They’re not healthy here, but I can’t afford to send them away.”

When I started to leave, he dropped back into his whine.

“I hadn’t the ghost of a chance.  Colonel Ingram and Judge Caldwell are pretty friendly.  I’m not saying that if I’d got the right kind of testimony out of their witnesses on cross-examination, that friendship would have decided the case.  And yet I must say that Judge Caldwell did a whole lot to prevent my getting that very testimony.  Why, Judge Caldwell and Colonel Ingram belong to the same lodge and the same club.  They live in the same neighborhood—­one I can’t afford.  And their wives are always in and out of each other’s houses.  They’re always having whist parties and such things back and forth.”

“And yet you think Jackson had the right of it?” I asked, pausing for the moment on the threshold.

“I don’t think; I know it,” was his answer.  “And at first I thought he had some show, too.  But I didn’t tell my wife.  I didn’t want to disappoint her.  She had her heart set on a trip to the country hard enough as it was.”

“Why did you not call attention to the fact that Jackson was trying to save the machinery from being injured?” I asked Peter Donnelly, one of the foremen who had testified at the trial.

He pondered a long time before replying.  Then he cast an anxious look about him and said: 

“Because I’ve a good wife an’ three of the sweetest children ye ever laid eyes on, that’s why.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“In other words, because it wouldn’t a-ben healthy,” he answered.

“You mean—­” I began.

But he interrupted passionately.

“I mean what I said.  It’s long years I’ve worked in the mills.  I began as a little lad on the spindles.  I worked up ever since.  It’s by hard work I got to my present exalted position.  I’m a foreman, if you please.  An’ I doubt me if there’s a man in the mills that’d put out a hand to drag me from drownin’.  I used to belong to the union.  But I’ve stayed by the company through two strikes.  They called me ‘scab.’  There’s not a man among ’em to-day to take a drink with me if I asked him.  D’ye see the scars on me head where I was struck with flying bricks?  There ain’t a child at the spindles but what would curse me name.  Me only friend is the company.  It’s not me duty, but me bread an’ butter an’ the life of me children to stand by the mills.  That’s why.”