“We’re about at the end of the rope,” he said wearily, when Caleb had closed the door of the log-house yard office behind him.  “The two Helgersons are played out, and neither of us can stand this strain for another twenty-four hours.  I’m just about dead on my feet for sleep, and I know you are.”

The old ex-artilleryman stifled a yawn, and admitted the fact.

“I’m gettin’ right old and no-account, son; there’s no denyin’ that.  And you can’t make out to shoulder it all, stout as you are.  But what-all can we do different?”

“I know what I’m going to do.  I had a ’phone wire from Bradley, the sheriff, last night after you went home.  He funked like a boy; said he couldn’t raise a posse in South Tredegar that would serve against striking workmen.  Then I wired the governor, and his answer came an hour ago.  We can have the soldiers if we make a formal demand for them.”

“But, Tom, son; you wouldn’t do that!” protested Caleb tremulously.  Then, getting up to walk the floor as was his wont under sharp stress:  “Let’s try to hold out a little spell longer, Buddy.  It’ll be like fire to tow; there’ll be men killed—­men that I’ve known ever since they were boys:  men killed, and women made widders.  Tom, I’ve seen enough of war to last me.”

“I know,” said Tom.  None the less, he found a telegraph blank and began to write the message.  There had been shots fired in the night, in a sally on the inclined railway, and one of them had scored his arm.  If the rioters needed the strong hand to curb them, they should have it.

“Think of what it’ll mean for this town that we’ve built up, son.  We’ll have to stay here—­’er leastwise, I will, and there’ll be blood on the streets for me to see as long as I walk ’em.”

“I know,” Tom reiterated, in the same monotonous tone.  But his pen did not pause.

“Then there’s your mammy,” Caleb pleaded, and now the pen stopped.

“Mother must not know.”

“How can we he’p her knowin’, Buddy?  I tell you, son, the very stones o’ Paradise’ll rise up to testify against us, now, and at the last great day, maybe.”

The frown deepened between the young man’s eyes.

“The old, old phantom!” he said, half to himself.  “Will it never be laid, even for those who know it to be a myth?” And then to his father:  “It’s no use, pappy.  I tell you we’ve got to take this thing by the neck.  See here; that’s how near they came to settling me last night,” and he showed the perforated coat-sleeve.

Caleb Gordon was silenced.  He resumed his restless pacing while Tom signed the call for help, read it over methodically, and placed it between dampened sheets in the letter-press.  He had pushed the electric button which summoned Stub Helgerson, when the door opened silently and Jeff Ludlow’s boy thrust face and hand through the aperture.

“Well; what is it?” demanded Tom, more sharply than he meant to.  The strain was beginning to tell on his nerves.