“I came to see you, Mr. Strong, to tell you about a thing you ought to know.  There is danger of your life here.”

“Where?” asked Philip, calmly.

“Here, in this neighborhood.”

“Well?” Philip waited for more explanation.

“I didn’t want to tell your wife, for fear of scaring her, but I thought you ought to know, Mr. Strong, and then you could take steps to protect yourself or get away.”

“Go on; tell me the worst,” said Philip, quietly, as the man paused.

“Well,” the man went on in a low tone, “two others and me overheard a talk last night by the men who run the Star Saloon and den down by the Falls.  They have a plan to waylay you, rob you and injure you, sir—­and do it in such a way as to make it seem a common hold-up.  They seemed to know about your habit of going around through the alleys and cross-streets of the tenements.  We heard enough to make us sure they really and truly meant to deal foully by you the first good chance, and we thought best to put you on your guard.  The rummies are down on you, Mr. Strong, you have been so outspoken against them; and your lecture in the hall last week has made them mad, I tell you.  They hate you worse than poison, for that’s the article they seem to sell and make a living out of.”

Philip had the week before addressed a large meeting of working-men, and in the course of his speech he had called attention to the saloon as one of the greatest foes of the wage-earner.

“Is that all?” Philip asked.

“All, man alive!—­isn’t it enough?  What more do you hanker after?”

“Of course I don’t ‘hanker after’ being held up or attacked, but these men are mistaken if they think to frighten me.”

“They mean more than frighten, Mr. Strong.  They mean business.”

“Why don’t you have them arrested, then, for conspiracy?  If you overheard their talk they are guilty and could be convicted.”

“Not in Milton, Mr. Strong.  Besides, there was no name mentioned.  And the talk was scattering-like.  They are shrewd devils.  But we could tell they meant you plain enough—­not to prove anything in court, though.”

“And you came to warn me?  That was kind of you, my brother!” Philip spoke with the winsome affection for men that made his hold on common people like the grappling vine with loving tendrils.

“Yes, Mr. Strong, and I tell you the rummies will almost hold a prayer-meeting when you leave Milton.  And they mean to make you trouble enough until you do leave.  If I was you,” the man paused, curiously—­“if I was you, I’d get up and leave this God-forsaken town, Mr. Strong.”

“You would?” Philip glanced at the letter which still lay upon the couch beside him.  “Suppose I should say I had about made up my mind to do just that thing?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Strong, you don’t mean that!” The man made a gesture toward Philip that revealed a world of longing and of hunger for fellowship that made Philip’s heart throb with a feeling of intense joy, mingled with an ache of pain.  The man at once repressed his emotion.  It had been like a lightning flash out of a summer cloud.