“What do you know!” he asked Plume.

“Only what others know.  They all know it or will soon.”

Wickersham’s face settled more.  He cursed in a low voice and then relapsed into reflection.

“Get up a strike,” said Plume.  “They are ripe for it.  Close her down and blow her up.”

Wickersham’s countenance changed, and presently his brow cleared.

“It will serve them right.  I’ll let them know who owns these mines.”

Next morning there was posted a notice of a cut of wages in the Wickersham mines.  There was a buzz of excitement in New Leeds and anger among the mining population.  At dinner-time there were meetings and much talking.  That night again, there were meetings and whiskey and more talking,—­louder talking,—­speeches and resolutions.  Next morning a committee waited on Mr. Wickersham, who received the men politely but coldly.  He “thought he knew how to manage his own business.  They must be aware that he had spent large sums in developing property which had not yet begun to pay.  When it began to pay he would be happy, etc.  If they chose to strike, all right.  He could get others in their places.”

That night there were more meetings.  Next day the men did not go to work.  By evening many of them were drunk.  There was talk of violence.  Bill Bluffy, who was now a miner, was especially savage.

Keith was surprised, a few days later, as he was passing along the street, to meet Euphronia Tripper.  He spoke to her cordially.  She was dressed showily and was handsomer than when he saw her last.  The color mounted her face as he stopped her, and he wondered that Wickersham had not thought her pretty.  When she blushed she was almost a beauty.  He asked about her people at home, inquiring in a breath when she came, where she was staying, how long she was going to remain, etc.

She answered the first questions glibly enough; but when he inquired as to the length of her visit and where she was staying, she appeared somewhat confused.

“I have cousins here, the Turleys.”

“Oh!  You are with Mr. Turley?” Keith felt relieved.

“Ur—­no—­I am not staying with them.  I am with some other friends.”  Her color was coming and going.

“What is their name?”

“Their name?  Oh—­uh—­I don’t know their names.”

“Don’t know their names!”

“No.  You see it’s a sort of private boarding-house, and they took me in.”

“Oh, I thought you said they were friends,” said Keith.

“Why, yes, they are, but—­I have forgotten their names.  Don’t you understand?”

Keith did not understand.

“I only came a few days ago, and I am going right away.”

Keith passed on.  Euphronia had clearly not changed her nature.  Insensibly, Keith thought of Ferdy Wickersham.  Old Rawson’s conversation months before recurred to him.  He knew that the girl was vain and light-headed.  He also knew Wickersham.