At the end of a week Bat awoke one morning to find the mills and all traffic at a standstill, and the workers skulking within the shelter of their own homes.

Then it was that the benefit of a week’s respite was made plain.  Every plan that had been prepared was forthwith put into operation.  Power and heat were again cut off.  The loyalists, which included a large number of the engineering staff, and the staff of the executive offices, were equipped with such weapons as would serve, and set guard over the food and liquor stores, and the essentials of the mills.  And the power house was fortified for siege.

But the strikers gave no sign.  There was no attempt at violence.  There was no picketing, and no apparent attempt at coercion of the loyalists.  It almost seemed as if the objects of the leaders had been achieved by the simple cessation of work.

This silent condition of the strike had gone on for days with exasperating effect upon the defenders.  Bat endeavoured by every means in his power to bring the leaders of the movement into the open to discuss the situation.  But every effort ended negatively.  The men would not contemplate the conference table, and finally, in headlong mood, the lumberman had committed the grave mistake of provocation.  He threatened to cut off food supplies if the leaders continued in their refusal to confer.

Two weeks elapsed before his threat reacted.  Two weeks of continued silence and apparent inaction by the strike leaders.  The men’s first terror at the loss of heat and power seemed to have passed.  As Bull had suggested they had resorted to the methods of the trail, and day and night mighty beacon fires burned along the fore-shores of the cove upon which their homes were built.  The men and women came and went peaceably but silently between the food stores and their homes, purchasing such provisions as they needed.  And the manner of it all, the cold silence, should have served a warning of the iron hand in exercise behind the strike.

The bombshell came at the end of the third week.  It came in the form of a message crouched in the flamboyant phraseology beloved of the Communist fraternity.  It was conveyed by a small youth some ten years of age, as though its authors were fearful lest a full grown bearer should be made to suffer for the temerity.

Bat had received it at the office, and his manner had been characteristic.

“Fer me, laddie?” he had said, as he took possession of the official-looking envelope.  Then he gently patted the boy’s shoulder.  “All right, sonny,” he added.  “You get right back to your folks.  Pore little bit.”

With the boy’s departure he had lost no time in reading the ultimatum the message contained.