A mass meeting of the workmen and their wives was afterwards held in the Library Hall at Pittsburgh to greet me, and I addressed them from both my head and my heart.  The one sentence I remember, and always shall, was to the effect that capital, labor, and employer were a three-legged stool, none before or after the others, all equally indispensable.  Then came the cordial hand-shaking and all was well.  Having thus rejoined hands and hearts with our employees and their wives, I felt that a great weight had been effectually lifted, but I had had a terrible experience although thousands of miles from the scene.

An incident flowing from the Homestead trouble is told by my friend, Professor John C. Van Dyke, of Rutgers College.

In the spring of 1900, I went up from Guaymas, on the Gulf of California, to the ranch of a friend at La Noria Verde, thinking to have a week’s shooting in the mountains of Sonora.  The ranch was far enough removed from civilization, and I had expected meeting there only a few Mexicans and many Yaqui Indians, but much to my surprise I found an English-speaking man, who proved to be an American.  I did not have long to wait in order to find out what brought him there, for he was very lonesome and disposed to talk.  His name was McLuckie, and up to 1892 he had been a skilled mechanic in the employ of the Carnegie Steel Works at Homestead.  He was what was called a “top hand,” received large wages, was married, and at that time had a home and considerable property.  In addition, he had been honored by his fellow-townsmen and had been made burgomaster of Homestead.

When the strike of 1892 came McLuckie naturally sided with the strikers, and in his capacity as burgomaster gave the order to arrest the Pinkerton detectives who had come to Homestead by steamer to protect the works and preserve order.  He believed he was fully justified in doing this.  As he explained it to me, the detectives were an armed force invading his bailiwick, and he had a right to arrest and disarm them.  The order led to bloodshed, and the conflict was begun in real earnest.

The story of the strike is, of course, well known to all.  The strikers were finally defeated.  As for McLuckie, he was indicted for murder, riot, treason, and I know not what other offenses.  He was compelled to flee from the State, was wounded, starved, pursued by the officers of the law, and obliged to go into hiding until the storm blew over.  Then he found that he was blacklisted by all the steel men in the United States and could not get employment anywhere.  His money was gone, and, as a final blow, his wife died and his home was broken up.  After many vicissitudes he resolved to go to Mexico, and at the time I met him he was trying to get employment in the mines about fifteen miles from La Noria Verde.  But he was too good a mechanic for the Mexicans, who required in mining the cheapest kind of unskilled