burning of a great quantity of gilt paper, he quietly departed for Boston at the first sign of popular discontent.  As Dexter described it, “Han-Lin coiled up his pig-tail, put forty grains of rice in a yallar bag,—­enough to last him a month!—­and toddled off in his two-story wooden shoes.”  He could scarcely have done a wiser thing, for poor Han-Lin’s laundry was turned wrong side out within thirty-six hours afterwards.

The strike was popular.  The spirit of it spread, as fire and fever and all elemental forces spread.  The two apprentices in Brackett’s bakery had a dozen minds about striking that first morning.  The younger lad, Joe Wiggin, plucked up courage to ask Brackett for a day off, and was lucky enough to dodge a piece of dough weighing nearly four pounds.

Brackett was making bread while the sun shone.  He knew that before the week was over there would be no cash customers, and he purposed then to shut up shop.

On the third and fourth days there was no perceptible fall in the barometer.  Trade was brisk with Snelling, and a brass band was playing national airs on a staging erected on the green in front of the post-office.  Nightly meetings took place at Grimsey’s Hall, and the audiences were good-humored and orderly.  Torrini advanced some Utopian theories touching a universal distribution of wealth, which were listened to attentively, but failed to produce deep impression.

“That’s a healthy idea of Torrini’s about dervidin’ up property,” said Jemmy Willson.  “I’ve heerd it afore; but it’s sing’ler I never knowd a feller with any property to have that idea.”

“Ther’ ’s a great dale in it, I can tell ye,” replied Michael Hennessey, with a well-blackened Woodstock pipe between his teeth and his hands tucked under his coat-tails.  “Isn’t ther’, Misther Stavens?”

When Michael had on his bottle-green swallow-tailed coat with the brass buttons, he invariably assumed a certain lofty air of ceremony in addressing his companions.

“It is sorter pleasant to look at,” returned Stevens, “but it don’t seem to me an idea that would work.  Suppose that, after all the property was divided, a fresh shipload of your friends was to land at New York or Boston; would there be a new deal?”

“No, sir! by no means!” exclaimed Michael excitedly.  “The furreners is counted out!”

“But you’re a foreigner yourself, Mike.”

“Am I, then?  Bedad, I’m not!  I’m a rale American Know Nothing.”

“Well, Mike,” said Stevens maliciously, “when it comes to a reg’lar division of lands and greenbacks in the United States, I go in for the Chinese having their share.”

“The Chinese!” shouted Michael.  “Oh, murther, Misther Stevens!  Ye wouldn’t be fur dividin’ with thim blatherskites!”

“Yes, with them,—­as well as the rest,” returned Stevens, dryly.

Meanwhile the directors and stockholders of the various mills took counsel in a room at the rear of the National Bank.  Mr. Slocum, following Richard’s advice, declined to attend the meeting in person, or to allow his name to figure on the list of vice-presidents.