harness shipped from a Cleveland factory had been received that morning,
and Jim had insisted they be unpacked and hung on hooks along the shop
walls. He had bullied Joe into helping hang the harnesses, and now Joe took
them down alone. One by one they were laid on the floor and with Jim's
knife the old man cut each strap into little pieces that made a pile of
litter on the floor reaching to his waist. When that was done he went again
to the rear of the shop, again stepping almost carelessly over the dead
man, and took the revolver out of the pocket of an overcoat that hung by
the door.

Joe went out of the shop by the back door, and having locked it carefully,
crept through an alleyway and into the lighted street where people walked
up and down. The next place to his own was a barber shop, and as he hurried
along the sidewalk, two young men came out and called to him. "Hey," they
called, "do you believe in factory-made harness now-days, Joe Wainsworth?
Hey, what do you say? Do you sell factory-made harness?"

Joe did not answer, but stepping off the sidewalk, walked in the road. A
group of Italian laborers passed, talking rapidly and making gestures with
their hands. As he went more deeply into the heart of the growing city,
past the socialist orator and a labor organizer who was addressing a crowd
of men on another corner, his step became cat-like as it had been in the
moment before the knife flashed at the throat of Jim Gibson. The crowds of
people frightened him. He imagined himself set upon by a crowd and hanged
to a lamp-post. The voice of the labor orator arose above the murmur of
voices in the street. "We've got to take power into our hands. We've got to
carry on our own battle for power," the voice declared.

The harness maker turned a corner into a quiet street, his hand caressing
affectionately the revolver in the side pocket of his coat. He intended to