As I entered the city I remembered the workman's house at which I had traded the silver pitcher， and in that direction my hunger drove me. Twilight was falling when I came to the place. I passed around by the alleyway and crawled up the black steps， on which I collapsed. I managed to reach out with the crutch and knock on the door. Then I must have fainted， for I came to in the kitchen， my face wet with water， and whisky being poured down my throat. I choked and spluttered and tried to talk. I began saying something about not having any more silver pitchers， but that I would make it up to them afterward if they would only give me something to eat.
But the housewife interrupted me.
"Why， you poor man，" she said， "haven't you heard？ The strike was called off this afternoon. Of course we'll give you something to eat."
She bustled around， opening a tin of breakfast bacon and preparing to fry it.
"Let me have some now， please，" I begged； and I ate the raw bacon on a slice of bread， while her husband explained that the demands of the I.L.W. had been granted. The wires had been opened up in the early afternoon， and everywhere the employers' associations had given in. There hadn't been any employers left in San Francisco， but General Folsom had spoken for them. The trains and steamers would start running in the morning， and so would everything else just as soon as system could be established.
And that was the end of the general strike. I never want to see another one. It was worse than a war. A general strike is a cruel and immoral thing， and the brain of man should be capable of running industry in a more rational way. Harrison is still my chauffeur. It was part of the conditions of the I.L.W. that all of its members should be reinstated in their old positions. Brown never came back， but the rest of the servants are with me. I hadn't the heart to discharge them - poor creatures， they were pretty hard-pressed when they deserted with the food and silver.
And now I can't discharge them. They have all been unionized by the I.L.W. The tyranny of organized labour is getting 第一章beyond human endurance. Something must be done.
THE SEA-FARMER
"That wull be the doctor's launch，" said Captain MacElrath.
The pilot grunted， while the skipper swept on with his glass from the launch to the strip of beach and to Kingston beyond， and then slowly across the entrance to Howth Head on the northern side.
"The tide's right， and we'll have you docked in two hours，" the pilot vouchsafed， with an effort at cheeriness. "Ring's End Basin， is it？"
This time the skipper grunted.
"A dirty Dublin day."
Again the skipper grunted. He was weary with the night of wind in the Irish Channel behind him， the unbroken hours of which he had spent on the bridge. And he was weary with all the voyage behind him - two years and four months between home port and home port， eight hundred and fifty days by his log.
"Proper wunter weather，" he answered， after a silence. "The town is undistinct. Ut wull be rainun' guid an' hearty for the day."
Captain MacElrath was a small man， just comfortably able to peep over the canvas dodger of the bridge. The pilot and third officer loomed above him， as did the man at the wheel， a bulky German， deserted from a warship， whom he had signed on in Rangoon. But his lack of inches made Captain MacElrath a no less able man. At least so the Company reckoned， and so would he have reckoned could he have had access to the carefully and minutely compiled record of him filed away in the office archives. But the Company had never given him a hint of its faith in him. It was not the way of the Company， for the Company went on the principle of never allowing an employee to think himself indispensable or even exceedingly useful； wherefore， while quick to censure， it never praised. What was Captain MacElrath， anyway， save a skipper， one skipper of the eighty-odd skippers that commanded the Company's eighty-odd freighters on all the highways and byways of the sea？
Beneath them， on the main deck， two Chinese stokers were carrying breakfast for'ard across the rusty iron plates that told their own grim story of weight and wash of sea. A sailor was taking down the life-line that stretched from the forecastle， past the hatches and cargo-winches， to the bridge-deck ladder.
"A rough voyage，" suggested the pilot.
"Aye， she was fair smokin' ot times， but not thot I minded thot so much as the lossin' of time. I hate like onythun' tull loss time."
So saying， Captain MacElrath turned and glanced aft， aloft and alow， and the pilot， following his gaze， saw the mute but convincing explanation of that loss of time. The smoke-stack， buff-coloured underneath， was white with salt， while the whistle- pipe glittered crystalline in the random sunlight that broke for the instant through a cloud-rift. The port lifeboat was missing， its iron davits， twisted and wrenched， testifying to the mightiness of the blow that had been struck the old Tryapsic. The starboard davits were also empty. The shattered wreck of the lifeboat they had held lay on the fiddley beside the smashed engine-room skylight， which was covered by a tarpaulin. Below， to star-board， on the bridge deck， the pilot saw the crushed mess-room door， roughly bulkheaded against the pounding seas. Abreast of it， on the smokestack guys， and being taken down by the bos'n and a sailor， hung the huge square of rope netting which had failed to break those seas of their force.
"Twice afore I mentioned thot door tull the owners，" said Captain MacElrath. "But they said ut would do. There was bug seas thot time. They was uncreditable bug. And thot buggest one dud the domage. Ut fair carried away the door an' laid ut flat on the mess table an' smashed out the chief's room. He was a but sore about ut."
"It must 'a' been a big un，" the pilot remarked sympathetically.
