The secretary opened the door, and then as suddenly shut and locked it.

"The strikers!" he cried; "they're running amuck!" "Open that door!" Norton commanded.

"We're skunks, are we? .. We're afraid of the boss, are we?" came the strident voices from outside.

"Open that door!" the old man again ordered, but seeing Treadway's alarm he strode from his desk and opened it himself.

"Here is the boss," he cried; "who wants him?"

Norton's unexpected appearance and his defiant attitude caused those who stood nearer the door to fall back. This encouraged Treadway to leave his desk and take his customary position beside his chief, but before doing so he took a revolver from the drawer and slipped it into his pocket.

"Well, . . here I am. What do you want?" Norton again demanded.

There was no sign of fear in the old man's bearing as he faced the disorderly mob. He was still master of his men, and the stern glance of his eye intimidated them as it always had. always had. Those who stood in front of him were silent, but from the rear came answers to his question.

"We want our rights, and we're goin' to get 'em!" "We're skunks, are we?"

"You want to make our bellies empty!"

Norton turned on them, his voice trembling with anger.

"Yes; you're skunks!" he cried. "I said it, and I mean it. If you weren't, you wouldn't be here where

you don't belong. You'd bite the hand that feeds you, would you? Well... for what you've done today you'll never have a job in this plant again. Now get to that door before I get to you!"

A few of the men fell back in the face of the violence of his words and attitude, but Tony Lemholtz pushed his way through the mass and stood menacingly before

him.

"When we go out that door," he threatened, “you'll go with us, and it's a coat of tar and feathers

for you!"

Before Norton could make reply, another figure elbowed its way to where Tony stood, causing a momentary diversion.

"So you've come back at last," Tony sneered, as he recognized him. "You're just in time to see your highbrow theories put in practice.'

With a single blow, into which Richard concentrated all his remaining strength, he stretched Tony in a heap at his feet. Then he turned to the strikers.

"Do you realize what you're doing?" he cried. "Violence will put back the cause of labor twenty years. Give way, and let me talk to my father."

With Tony's downfall the aggressive attitude weakened. He had regained his feet, but for the time being showed little further interest in the proceedings.

"Father," Richard appealed to the belligerent old man. "Don't hold this up against the men. It is all wrong, and they know it; but they have suffered, and this man here"-pointing at Lemholtz-"has incited them beyond their reason. Let it stand, I beg of you,

as a terrible mistake, but also as an evidence of the depth of their conviction that they have rights which have not yet been recognized. Tell them that you will again take their demands under consideration. Set them an example of moderation. It is your son who asks it.” "My son!" Norton cried. "I have no son. Except for you, this disgraceful affair would never have occurred. You have brains, and you have loaned them to these numskulls, you have encouraged them to turn themselves from respectful, efficient workmen into ruffians. I repeat," . . he shouted, . . "not one of you skunks. . you carrion shall ever have a job in this plant again."

The mob surged forward angrily at his words, pushing Richard, Lemholtz, and Sterling through the door of the private office. Sterling aided Richard in his efforts to force the men back, and Treadway, emboldened by the reinforcements, joined them, leaving Norton standing by himself, leaning against his desk, angry, and defiant. But the strikers were not so easily repulsed.

"Come on, boys,” Lemholtz cried exultantly, keeping well beyond the reach of Richard's arm, . . "come on now and get the boss! We'll make him eat his words. These traitors can't hold us back!"

Backwards and forwards the mob surged, Norton himself being the only one apart from the jostling crowd. Suddenly, without warning, a shot rang out, Norton's body gave a convulsive quiver, and then crumpled into a heap on the floor. Richard sprang forward instinctively, but Treadway seized him by the

arm and held him back. At the same moment there was the sound of a falling object upon the floor.

"Stand back you hypocrite!" Treadway commanded, pointing to the uniformed official who was pushing the strikers one side. "Leave everything as it is. The officer will take charge... Mr. Norton telephoned for you when he heard that the strikers were on their way," he explained; "but you have come too late."

Silence fell on the mob as the officer examined the body. Then he rose.

"He is dead," he announced. "Who shot him?" Treadway pointed to an army revolver which lay on the floor.

"That may help to answer your question," he remarked.

"Whose is it?" the officer demanded, picking up the

weapon.

"Ask Richard Norton," Treadway suggested.

"Is this yours?"

The officer showed the revolver to Richard, who examined it carefully. The crowd awaited his reply in tense expectation.

"Yes," he answered, as he located a mark on the butt; "it is the gun I used in France. But . . .”

"Anything you say, Mr. Norton, will be used against you," the officer cautioned him. "You are under arrest!"

CHAPTER XX

T

I

HE DEATH of James Norton made it necessary

for the town of Norcross to take a new inventory of itself. When for twenty-five years one man has dominated every motion a community makes, it is inevitable that his loss should be distinctly felt. The shock of the tragedy shook the town to its depths, and actually changed its personality. Yet it was not many days before the topic of conversation veered from the dead to the living.

Richard Norton was confined in the county jail, indicted by the Grand Jury and held for the murder of his father. The town was split into factions on the question of his innocence or guilt. Those who held him to be the murderer recounted the endless misunderstandings between Richard and his father, and the final parting in anger. Clerks in the counting-room of the plant recalled the many humiliations he had suffered at his father's hands. The strikers bore testimony to the importance Richard attached to the new industrial relations he had endeavored to establish for them, and his overwhelming chagrin when James Norton gave the matter such scant courtesy. Those who were