“That’s right,” agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly.

“There’s lots of them on this line,” said the officer on the right.  Around the corner a more populated way appeared.  One or two pedestrians were in view ahead.  A boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting.

“Scab!” he yelled.  “Scab!”

Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself.  He knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably.

At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signaled the car to stop.

“Never mind him,” said one of the officers.  “He’s up to some game.”

Hurstwood obeyed.  At the corner he saw the wisdom of it.  No sooner did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his fist.

“Ah, you bloody coward!” he yelled.

Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car.

Hurstwood winced the least bit.  The real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been.

Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track.

“They’ve been at work, here, all right,” said one of the policemen.

“We’ll have an argument, maybe,” said the other.

Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped.  He had not done so wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about.  It was composed of ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathizers.

“Come off the car, pardner,” said one of the men in a voice meant to be conciliatory.  “You don’t want to take the bread out of another man’s mouth, do you?”

Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to do.

“Stand back,” yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform railing.  “Clear out of this, now.  Give the man a chance to do his work.”

“Listen, pardner,” said the leader, ignoring the policeman and addressing Hurstwood.  “We’re all working men, like yourself.  If you were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we’ve been, you wouldn’t want any one to come in and take your place, would you?  You wouldn’t want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would you?”

“Shut her off! shut her off!” urged the other of the policemen, roughly.  “Get out of this, now,” and he jumped the railing and landed before the crowd and began shoving.  Instantly the other officer was down beside him.

“Stand back, now,” they yelled.  “Get out of this.  What the hell do you mean?  Out, now.”

It was like a small swarm of bees.

“Don’t shove me,” said one of the strikers, determinedly.  “I’m not doing anything.”

“Get out of this!” cried the officer, swinging his club.  “I’ll give ye a bat on the sconce.  Back, now.”

“What the hell!” cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths.