The Pensacola journal. (Pensacola, Fla.) 1898-1985, 1912-02-28

Ha-@SN-V IkIfIkl. 4d0 DCCil PIT Will d kl4C
EHSA9gL/xNsH so as to be lighted easily.
Izz===zAzsg OATS de way We get
i'm" explained Holtz-
man, exhibiting a stick twice as large
as tallow candle and wrapped IN oiled
paper buff in color Dynamite iss hard
hitter" he went on, breaking the stick in
his hands after an apparently most reckless
fashion, revealing the composition within, a
soaPy substance the hue of light brown
sugar
The molders' and maehinists' strike was
lnofv a four months open sore John Mar
tins muscular frame had long been stripped
Of its last super1uous ounce. His lean face
was clear and his cheeks had lost their
furnace tan. True, there were shady spots
under his lower lids, but that was from
worry, and there was red light in his dark
eyes at times, but that was from the beast
care that came into them more and more
as the battle went against him,
Hoffman, short of stature, with a scrub
Of beard upon his face, his blood-shot eyes
blazing, his whole body quivering with
animation, crowded further into the shadow
of the lumber pile behind which they were
standing, and leaned forward, piece of
the broken stick Of dynamite in either hand,
as he peered straight into the face Of his
companion.
But Martins features were, as usual, in
scrutable Three months before, after
thirty years Of scabbing, he walked into the
strike, big, calm, self-controlled fellow
with kindly, amiable features Sorrow,
hunger, bereavement, hardship, anxiety,
and the hand-to-throat struggle had their
way with him in those ninety days. He had
become lion of a man. He held no Office,
nor would. Yet he had come to be the
greatest single personal force among them.
He could quiet the mob with word. He
could rouse it with look He was as good
as the word of Polonius in that he lent
every man his ear and few indeed his tongue
in facile speech. Slow of word, he was swift
thinker, yet he reasoned himself solidly to
conclusions which, once gained, he stood
upon with all the solidity of his own splen-
did physical constitution.
And now he was backed up behind the
lumber pile, listening while Hoffman,
SCALED often enough and inaccurately the
Dutchnnan, was expounding the Gospel of
Dynamite.
BLOW 'em to hell up, is vat say" he
muttered again, in hoarse whisper, with
a violent upward gesture Of the arms and
furtive glance around as he spoke.
Martin reached out and took one of the
broken pieces of dynamite and hefted it in
his hand thoughtfully.
Hoffman went on:
Every day -dey bring in more scabs on
us. Volts de matter if de strike is not lost,
hey, if We don't do Something's"
Martin was shifting at the open end of the
stick now, and gazing abstractedly down
the curve Of his nose.
q couple dozen sticks like dat would
make de Rockport shop look like junk
pile, vat?"
The dynamite crumbled to fragments
with a nervous contraction of the strong
mans fingers.
sHoltzmanl' Martin exclaimed, "you
are fooll''
"a fool, vatlp exclaimed the surprised
German.
ayes, FOOL Property is sacred with me,
Hoffman, as sacred as life, because it's the
product Of life and the means Of life. Our
fight amt with bricks nor wheels. It's
with men. The bosses need them factories
to make their money with. We need 'em
to make our money with. That's all there
is to that When a man hits scab on the
head, l can understand it, because I've
done the same. But when he takes to
THROWN dynamite around, he's BLOWN up
his own works. What's the use to be a
doddering idiot, Hoffman. Property's
sacred. It's got to be, or there's nothing
to civilization at all, and you and me are
Just wolves in the pack"
am volt, broke in Hoffman, show
ing all his teeth and glaring red gums that
were almost lupine in their hideousness. "I
would destroy dat vich is destroying me.
Dey viii not arbitrate, desc bosses. Ven
dey kick us in de faces NIT DER heel, vat
We do? Disr' and he waved the other bit
Of dynamite In his hand.
Eve make big trouble for de bosses nit it.
We take down a vail. We blow up a furnace,
maybe. We shake up de board house we're
de scabs eat and sleep. We shoot off stick
in de boss garden. Itmakes de women cry
Dey run NIT der arms aroundt de bosses
neck. DEFY say, please you stop dis horrid
strike and let dem mems 60 back to work
so dfy don't do desc crazy tings any more. !"
Are you 6ghtin women1" asked Martin,
sententiously.
"Py golly, der bosses arel-And chill
drens, too.
Martins chest rose and fell with sigh.
He thought of his own dismantled home, of
his family scattered, Of LATHE Wiggler, his