Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small, dust-colored office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks.

“Well, sir?” said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk.

“Do you want to hire any men?” inquired Hurstwood.

“What are you—­a motorman?”

“No; I’m not anything,” said Hurstwood.

He was not at all abashed by his position.  He knew these people needed men.  If one didn’t take him, another would.  This man could take him or leave him, just as he chose.

“Well, we prefer experienced men, of course,” said the man.  He paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently.  Then he added:  “Still, I guess you can learn.  What is your name?”

“Wheeler,” said Hurstwood.

The man wrote an order on a small card.  “Take that to our barns,” he said, “and give it to the foreman.  He’ll show you what to do.”

Hurstwood went down and out.  He walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the policemen looked after.

“There’s another wants to try it,” said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey.

“I have my mind he’ll get his fill,” returned the latter, quietly.  They had been in strikes before.

Chapter XLI THE STRIKE

The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and was being operated practically by three men as directors.  There were a lot of green hands around—­queer, hungry-looking men, who looked as if want had driven them to desperate means.  They tried to be lively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence about the place.

Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed lot, where were a series of tracks and loops.  A half dozen cars were there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever.  More pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn.

In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited.  His companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the cars.  They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however.  One or two were very thin and lean.  Several were quite stout.  Several others were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of rough weather.

“Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?” Hurstwood heard one of them remark.

“Oh, they’ll do that,” returned the other.  “They always do.”

“Think we’re liable to have much trouble?” said another, whom Hurstwood did not see.

“Not very.”

“That Scotchman that went out on the last car,” put in a voice, “told me that they hit him in the ear with a cinder.”

A small, nervous laugh accompanied this.

“One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of a time, according to the papers,” drawled another.  “They broke his car windows and pulled him off into the street ’fore the police could stop ’em.”