Picture-Play Magazine (Oct-Nov 1915)

gers she spread it before her and 3d: "Dear Milly: Twenty-four hours iter you read this note I'll be dead, jit is the only way out, so you can marry the man you truly love. Goodby. ' Ned." I For a moment she sat stunned. She iuld not realize that this man who had crificed so much for her was willing make the supreme sacrifice in order 'at she might marry the father of her lborn child, the man she loved. "Men, the time has come for us to irike. Our demands are just. We have »ked for better working conditions for irselves and a ten-per-cent increase in ilary in order that our kids may go t school decently fed and clothed. We re asking that which every man is ended to, a fair chance to make an onest living. We have been laughed :. Our committee was shown the door y the president of this company. Our emands have been thrown down. There s but one thing left for us — we must trike !" Every one in the hall was in unaninous accord with the views of the peaker, and a thunder of applause reeted him. One of the younger men umped to his feet, shouting: Three cheers for our president, Ned .ane, and three more for the success f our strike." Immediately the orderly meeting beame a howling, frenzied mob. A trange light gleamed in the eyes of faese sons of toil — they were struggling • or their rights ; aye, they were battling 'or their very existence ! j "Men," the voice of Ned Lane boomed nit the one word, and silence fell on in f' s to be no violence. Ours is to be a ' xaceful strike, and if any one resorts [ :o violence, he will have me to deal with. We will now continue with the business of the meeting." Quickly the work of organizing the various strike committees was completed, and the next morning not a wheel turned in the great paper mill in which Ned Lane had located after two years of wandering, in his efforts to kill the gnawing at his heart. The strike had reached an acute stage. The strike fund was rapidly being depleted. There were mutterings among the men ; they could stand the shorter PICTURE-PLAY WEEKLY rations, but it was hard to see the youngsters and womenfolk suffering from lack of food. It was on these that the real burden and suffering fell. Sims, a professional strike agitator, had drifted into town. In the growing discontent among ^the strikers Ned could see the insidious work of Sims. To be sure, he did not openly harangue the men to violence, his method was more subtle; quietly he worked among the men, urging them to drop their peaceful methods and use force, create a reign of terror, if necessary, to secure their demands. Rapidly the situation was getting beyond the control of Lane. He argued with the men to have a little more patience, that their cause must triumph because it was right. All the time, however, he kept a watchful eye on the agitator Sims. Going into a saloon early one night, where the more turbulent spirits among the strikers were in the habit of gathering, Ned was just in time to see Sims, accompanied by Talek, a weak-witted striker, and one of the laborers who had been loudly shouting for violence, and who had early attached himself openly to Sims, slide through a rear door. The agitator carried a leather bag or something white that mystified Ned when, on looking closer, he saw that it was a rag doll. Quietly, Lane quitted the place. Skirting the building, Ned gained a position near the one window that opened into the back room. Carefully peering into the room, he saw that Talek was the worse for liquor, and that Sims and his satellite were vehemently arguing with the poor, weak-minded chap. Whipping his knife from his pocket, Ned inserted the blade beneath the window. Stealthily and noiselessly he raised the sash a couple of inches in order to hear the conversation which was being carried on. "Now, you listen to me, Talek," rasped Sims, his ratlike eyes emitting sparks of fire. "The time has come when we must show these hounds that we mean business. The officers of this company are but small fry, and it would not do us any good to hurt them. We must get the man higher up. You know that this mill is but one of a chain owned by a man whose name is not even known to any of you boys. 27 "Well, I ain't been doing nothing the last few days. I have found out who this man is. You've got to get him, Talek !" The witless one stiffened in his chair. A maniacal light gleamed in his eyes. His hands opened and closed convulsively, as though he were throttling the life out of this man who was responsible for the conditions under which he had labored. At this juncture Sims moved over to the bar, where he whispered something to a man there who was evidently his right-hand man. The latter nodded, and walked over to the table, where the other two men were seated. There he continued where Sims had left off in his agitation work. "In this bag," said Sims' assistant, touching a leather case at his side that had been placed there by the other agitator, "is an automatic pistol. This doll is loaded with enough dynamite to blow the mansion of the dirty cur who has starved us to perdition, and its occupants along with it. "To-night we leave for the home of the mill owner. If he -will not grant our demands, you are to shoot him, and then hurl this bomb into the room, to destroy the evidence of your shot!" "Who's the man, and where does he live?" thickly muttered Talek. "The man lives in Millport, twenty miles from here. We can be at his house by half past nine. The man you are to get is Frank Dawson!" Throughout the entire conversation Lane had crouched at the window, listening to every word that had been exchanged. As the name of Frank Dawson fell from the agitator's lips, his body became rigid. Milly's husband was to be murdered ! Quickly he formed his plans. The same train that bore Sims and his coplotters toward Millport later also carried Ned Lane. He had made up his mind to save the life of the man Milly loved. Meanwhile, in the luxurious home which Frank had given her, Milly was all unconscious of the shadow that menaced her new-found happiness. "Let me tell you, Mr. Dawson," grated Sims, as he stood before the owner of the chain of paper mills, "we are getting sick and tired of the way things are going. I am here to settle this i