But you should have
compromised twelve hours sooner."
"So as you should not have had to make yourself unpopular?" asked
Kurfeldt. "You needn't be afraid. You've done your best for us. Now
we'll do our best for you."
"I was not thinking of myself. I was thinking of the dead," said Peter.
Peter sent a despatch to headquarters and went the rounds to see if all
was as it should be. Then spreading his blanket in the passenger
waiting-room, he fell asleep, not with a very happy look on the grave
face.
But the morning-papers announced that the strike was ended by a
compromise, and New York and the country breathed easier.
Peter did not get much sleep, for he was barely dreaming of--of a
striker, who had destroyed his peace, by striking him in the heart with
a pair of slate-colored eyes--when a hand was placed on his shoulder.
He was on his feet before the disturber of his dreams could speak.
"A despatch from headquarters," said the man.
Peter broke it open. It said:
"Take possession of Printing-house Square, and await further orders.
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