At the beginning of the sixth day, for his stay had
outgrown its original plan, the pocket-ledger, 3 T 9901, was but little
the richer, but the mind of its owner teemed with impressions.
It was his purpose to take those impressions in person to Mr. Horace
Vanney, by the 10 A.M. train. Arriving at the station early, he was
surprised at being held up momentarily by a line of guards engaged in
blocking off a mob of wailing, jabbering women, many of whom had
children in their arms, or at their skirts. He asked the ticket-agent, a
big, pasty young man about them.
"Mill workers," said the agent, making change.
"What are they after?"
"Wanta get to the 10.10 train."
"And the guards are stopping them?"
"You can use your eyes, cantcha?"
Using his eyes, Banneker considered the position. "Are those fellows on
railroad property?"
"What is it to you whether they are or ain't?"
Banneker explained his former occupation. "That's different," said the
agent. "Come inside. That's a hell of a mess, ain't it!" he added
plaintively as Banneker complied. "Some of those poor Hunkies have got
their tickets and can't use 'em."
"I'd see that they got their train, if this was my station," asserted
Banneker.
"Yes, you would! With that gang of strong-arms against you.
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