“So I hear,” answered another.

“Infernal shame.  If it was only the closed-shop question I dunno’s I’d feel so.  We’re open shop here—­but we git treated like human bein’s. ...  Over there—­” The man shrugged his shoulders.  “Look at the way they’ve fought the strike.  Don’t blame ’em for fightin’ it.  Calc’late they had to fight it, but there’s fightin’ and fightin’. ...  Seems like this Foote bunch set out to do the worst that could be done—­and they done it.”

“Wonder when it ’ll peter out—­the strike?”

“Back’s busted now.  Nothin’s holding it up but that man Dulac.  There’s a man for you!  I’ve knowed labor leaders I didn’t cotton to nor have much confidence in—–­fellers that jest wagged their tongues and took what they could get out of it.  But this Dulac—­he’s a reg’lar man.  I’ve listened to him, and I tell you he means what he says.  He’s in it to git somethin’ for the other feller. ...  But he can’t hold out much longer.”

It was true; Dulac could not hold out much longer.  That very noon he was fighting with his back against the wall.  In Workingman’s Hall he was making his last fierce fight to hold from crumbling the resolution of the strikers who still stood by their guns. ...  He threw the fire of his soul into their dull, phlegmatic faces.  It struck no answering spark.  Never before had he spoken to men without a consciousness of his powers, without pose, without dramatics.  Now he was himself, and more dramatic, more compelling than ever before. ...  He pleaded, begged, flayed his audience, but it did not respond to his pleadings nor writhe under the whip of his words.  It was apathetic, stolid.  In its weary heart it knew what it was there to do, and it would do it in spite of Dulac. ...  He would not admit it.  He would not submit to defeat.  He talked on and on, not daring to stop, for with the stoppage of his harangue he heard the death of the strike.  It lived only with his voice.

In the body of the hall a man, haggard of face, arose.

“’Tain’t no use, Mr. Dulac,” he said, dully.  “We’ve stuck by you—­”

“You’ve stuck by yourselves,” Dulac cried.

“Whatever you say. ...  But’tain’t no use.  We’re licked.  Hain’t no use keepin’ up and stretchin’ out the sufferin’. ...  I hain’t the least of the sufferers, Mr. Dulac—­my wife hain’t with me no more.”  The dull voice wabbled queerly.  “There’s hunger and grief and sufferin’—­ willin’ly endured when there was a chance—­but there hain’t no chance. ...  ’Tain’t human to ask any more of our wirnmin and children. ...  It’s them I’m a-thinkin’ of, Mr. Dulac... and on account of them I say this strike ought to quit.  It’s got to quit, and I demand a vote on it, Mr. Dulac.”

“Vote!...  Vote!...  Vote!...” roared up to Dulac from all over the hall. ...  It was the end.  He was powerless to stay the rush of the desire of those weary men for peace.