cobwebs grew; there was an element not reached by, resentful of,
the atmosphere of Johnny's friendliness--"Terence O'Hara's gang."
By the old road of music he had found his way to the hearts of
many. There were good voices among the thousand odd workmen,
and Johnny McLean could not well live without music. He heard
Dennis Mulligan's lovely baritone and Jack Dennison's rolling
bass, as they sang at work in the dim tunnels of the coal-mine,
and it seemed quite simple to him that they and he and others
should meet when work hours were over and do some singing.
Soon it was a club--then a big club; it kept men out of saloons,
which Johnny was glad of, but had not planned. A small kindliness
seems often to be watered and fertilized by magic. Johnny's
music-club grew to be a spell to quiet wild beasts. Yet Terence
O'Hara and his gang had a strong hold; there was storm in the air
and the distant thunder was heard almost continually.

Johnny, as he swung up the main street of the flat little town,
the brick school-house and the two churches at one end, many
saloons en route, and the gray rock dump and the chimneys and
shaft-towers of the mine at the other, carried a ribbon of
brightness through the sordid place. Women came to the doors to
smile at the handsome young gentleman who took his hat off as if
they were ladies; children ran by his side, and he knocked their
caps over their eyes and talked nonsense to them, and swung on
whistling. But at night, alone in his room, he was serious.
How to keep the men patient; how to use his influence with them;
how to advise the president--for young as he was he had to do
this because of the hold he had gained on the situation; what
concessions were wise--the young face fell into grave lines as
he sat, hands deep in his pockets as usual, and considered these