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"They think you feel to them just like you do to a machine and it makes them sore, all the time," said the boy

"Heavens! what do they want? Must I kiss thehed "No, but I knohat they h you owned them--and not that either It's sort of like if you could recollect their na beyond your depth!" said his father

The seven o'clock whistle did not blow that hot August ing men with clean faces and hands It was like Sunday Ernest went to work in his father's store Roger spent thein the office with his father In the afternoon he circulated a the h they looked on the boy as his father's spy

But Moore had nothing to conceal nor had the htful far beyond his years, and little by little thewith hiot that summer that he was a boy Even at Saturday afternoon baseball, his ered his ie boss, talked ht, than any of the others There was a bench outside the picket fence that surrounded Ole's house, and Ole's house was not a stone's throw froe shed Here nearly every afternoon Ole, with so quoits in front of the shed, they would talk of the strike

Roger, his heavy black hair tossed back frohtful, his boyish lips compressed in the effort to understand, seldom missed a session The strike had lasted nearly a month when he said to Ole

"My father says that if the strike isn't over in teeks, he's ruined"

"That's a dirty lie!" exclaier's ready fist could land, Ole had pulled the boy back to the bench

"What's the good of that!" said Ole "Eab"

There was silence for a few roup of er stared at the group of factory buildings Unpretentious buildings they were, of wood or brick, one-story and raht inwith ashes from his furnaces, he as slowly added to the floor space of his factory Roger could re the first, which was made when he was only a baby He knehat the factory meant to John Moore and with sudden bitterness he cried, "I don't see what good it will do you to ruin my father!"