He was approaching one of the groups of strikers, and unconsciously he slowed his steps.  The whites of his eyes reddened.  The great coat of golden fur he wore gave to his aspect an added quality of formidableness.  There were some who scattered as he drew near, and of the less timorous spirits that remained only a few raised dark, sullen glances to encounter his, which was unflinching, passionately contemptuous.  Throughout the countless generations that lay behind them the instinct of submission had played its dominant, phylogenetic role.  He was the Master.  The journey across the seas had not changed that.  A few shivered—­not alone because they were thinly clad.  He walked on, slowly, past other groups, turned the corner of West Street, where the groups were more numerous, while the number of those running the gantlet had increased.  And he heard, twice or thrice, the word “Scab!” cried out menacingly.  His eyes grew redder still as he spied a policeman standing idly in a doorway.

“Why in hell don’t you do your duty?” he demanded.  “What do you mean by letting them interfere with these workers?”

The man flinched.  He was apologetic.  “So long as they’re peaceable, Mr. Ditmar—­those are my orders.  I do try to keep ’em movin’.”

“Your orders?  You’re a lot of damned cowards,” Ditmar replied, and went on.  There were mutterings here; herded together, these slaves were bolder; and hunger and cold, discouragement at not being able to stop the flow toward the mills were having their effect.  By the frozen canal, the scene of the onslaught of yesterday, the crowd had grown comparatively thick, and at the corner of the lodging-house row Ditmar halted a moment, unnoticed save by a few who nudged one another and murmured.  He gave them no attention, he was trying to form an estimate of the effect of the picketing on his own operatives.  Some came with timid steps; others, mostly women, fairly ran; still others were self-possessed, almost defiant—­and such he marked.  There were those who, when the picketers held them by the sleeve, broke precipitately from their annoyers, and those who hesitated, listening with troubled faces, with feelings torn between dread of hunger for themselves and their children and sympathy with the revolt.  A small number joined the ranks of the picketers.  Ditmar towered above these foreigners, who were mostly undersized:  a student of human nature and civilization, free from industrial complexes, would from that point of vantage have had much to gather from the expressions coming within his view, but to Ditmar humanity was a means to an end.  Suddenly, from the cupolas above the battlement of the mill, the bells shattered the early morning air, the remnant of the workers hastened across the canal and through the guarded gates, which were instantly closed.  Ditmar was left alone among the strikers.  As he moved toward the bridge they made a lane for him to pass; one or two he thrust out of his way.  But there were mutterings, and from the sidewalk he heard a man curse him.