gray. He is dressed in a gray cutaway business suit and wears a silk
hat. His neckscarf is of English make, his collar is of the thickest
linen and neatest pattern, and his general appearance that of the
aristocratic business man whose evenings in a provincial city are spent
at a club, and in the metropolis at the opera.

It is Gorman Purdy. Trueman's fondest hope--next to the one that at some
distant day, say ten or fifteen years in the future, he may sit in the
United States Senate--is that this man's daughter, Ethel Purdy, renowned
in more than one city for her beauty, may become his wife. Indeed, the
hope of the Senate and of Ethel go hand in hand. With either, he would
not know what to do without the other, and without the one he would not
want the other.

"Trueman, we are going to have trouble with the men." Purdy draws a
chair up to Trueman's desk.

"I've just been talking over the telephone to the mine boss at Harleigh.
The men there and at Hazleton hold a meeting to-night to decide whether
or not they will strike in sympathy with the Carbon County miners,
because of the shut-down.

"Now, we've got to strike the first blow! The men over at Pittsfield and
at the Woodward mines will join the strikers if the Harleigh and
Hazleton men go out. We must get an injunction to prevent the committee
from the affected mines from visiting the other men. If they come it is
for the sole purpose of inducing the men to strike. Isn't that
sufficient grounds for an injunction?"

"You can get your injunction, Mr. Purdy," Trueman replies, "but what