door and unlocking it stepped out. The miners stood in groups on the
wooden sidewalk and in the mud of the road. Among them stood the old
crone who had walked beside the horses and shouted at the soldiers. A
miner with a black beard came and stood before the boy. Waving his
hand at the crowd he said, "We have come to open the bakery. Some of
us have no ovens in our stoves. You give us the key and we will open
the place. We will break in the door if you don't want to do that. The
company can't blame you if we do it by force. You can keep account of
what we take. Then when the strike is settled we will pay you."

A flame shot into the eyes of the boy. He walked down the steps and
stood among the miners. Thrusting his hands into his pockets he peered
into their faces. When he spoke his voice resounded through the
street, "You jeered at my father, Cracked McGregor, when he went into
the mine for you. You laughed at him because he saved his money and
did not spend it buying you drinks. Now you come here to get bread his
money bought and you do not pay. Then you get drunk and go reeling
past this very door. Now let me tell you something." He thrust his
hands into the air and shouted. "The mine manager did not close this
place. I closed it. You jeered at Cracked McGregor, a better man than
any of you. You have had fun with me--laughing at me. Now I jeer at
you." He ran up the steps and unlocking the door stood in the doorway.
"Pay the money you owe this bakery and there will be bread for sale
here," he called, and went in and locked the door.

The miners walked off up the street. The boy stood within the bakery,
his hands trembling. "I've told them something," he thought, "I've
shown them they can't make a fool of me." He went up the stairway to
the rooms above. By the window his mother sat, her head in her hands,
looking down into the street. He sat in a chair and thought of the