Despite the extraordinary walk through the beautiful
estates, my stomach churned at the thought of calling on
Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy. Not on account of them, of
course, but from the likelihood of another encounter with
Mrs. Grice, Walter’s mother. I dreaded having to face her
again. With thoughts of humiliation and rejection running
through my mind, I didn’t notice the crowd down the street
until I was only a few blocks away. It was a picket line!
Though fewer than a dozen picketers carried placards
saying: SOLIDARITY and AN INJURY TO ONE IS THE CONCERN OF
ALL, their boisterous chanting of their slogans over and
over had drawn a crowd of three times that. They marched
in front of the Ocean House Hotel. And among them was
Lester Sibley. When had the police released him? I
wondered.

“What’s going on?” I asked one of the bystanders, a woman
in a stylish straw hat with a large projecting front brim,
trimmed in silk orchards.

“Looks like the telegraph at Ocean House is running again.
Someone must have quit the strike.” Mrs. Mayhew and her
set will be happy to hear that, I thought.

As I drew nearer, I noticed the Pinkerton detective Silas
Doubleday force Lester Sibley away from his group, pushing
him to the side of the street. Suddenly a jarring engine
roar came from behind me. I twisted around as a motorcar,
Nick Whitwell’s motorcar, careened by me heading straight
for the pair of arguing men. Did they see it? Of course no
one could miss the grating sound.

“Watch out!” someone yelled.

Doubleday and Sibley jerked around and leaped out of the
way moments before the car careened across the spot where
they’d been standing. It swerved toward them, two wheels
scraping along the sidewalk, missing their feet by inches.
The crowd, no longer paying any attention to the picketers,
scrambled in every direction. Many barely avoided being
run down by the deadly contraption before it raced away.
But one person capitalized on the commotion. The minute
he’d stepped out of the line of the car, Silas Doubleday
drew out a short, thick billy club and began swinging it at
anyone still holding a placard. Making contact with arms
and legs and heads, Doubleday single-handedly ended the
picketing. Beaten and battered, the picketers, if they
were able, dropped their placards and scattered, leaving
their fallen comrades behind.

“And let that be the end of it!” Doubleday shouted as he
casually placed his club on his belt and strode away,
whistling “Ode to Joy.”
Doesn’t the man know another tune? I thought peevishly.

Several people, myself included, hastened over to those who
still lay on the ground. One man was moaning, bent over
his leg, his trousers ripped where the club had connected
with his shin. Another lay unconscious but without any
obvious injury. When two men tried to lift him, however,
he screamed in pain. Lester Sibley lay motionless on the
ground. I knelt by his side and placed my hand on his
wrist as I had seen Walter do so many times. I felt
Sibley’s pulse and breathed a sigh of relief when he opened
his eyes at the feel of my touch.

“Are you all right, Mr. Sibley?” I asked.

“I will be,” he said as he struggled to sit up. I helped
him into a sitting position. “What happened?” Oh, no, I
thought. He’s taken a blow to his head and doesn’t remember
anything.

“I believe you’ve been hit on the head,” I said. If he
didn’t remember anything, I wasn’t going to be the one to
bring up the Pinkerton man’s attack.

“No, I remember Doubleday hitting me,” he said, rubbing the
back of his head and wincing as he touched a sensitive
spot. “Bastard,” he added under his breath. “No, I was
talking about that motorcar. It was out of control.” He
hadn’t realized, as those of us in the crowd had, that
either he or Detective Doubleday was the motorcar’s target.
“I didn’t even know someone in town had one of those
things.”

I didn’t tell him Nick Whitwell owned the motorcar. This
time the driver was hidden under an odd combination of a
mackintosh coat, yellow and green plaid woolen scarf,
round-crowned rubber hat, and goggles. But who was he
kidding? Nick had already tried once to injure and maybe
even kill Sibley. The disguise wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I’d never seen one before. Who would’ve guessed I’d get so
close!” He chuckled.

“Could you be stirring up so much trouble and resentment
that people want to kill you, Mr. Sibley?” I asked.

He stared at me in wonder. And then to my astonishment he
smiled. “Well, I certainly hope so,” he said. “You saw
what happened at the jail. Why?”

“Because I believe the driver was trying to hit you,” I
said.

Lester nodded as if giving approval. “Then I’m doing my
job, Miss Davish. I’m doing my job.”

“That may be how you feel, Mr. Sibley, but it would seem
that Detective Doubleday has put an end to your work here.”

“What do you mean?” he said. How could it not be obvious
to him? Maybe the blow to his head was more serious than
it looked.

“Look around you, Mr. Sibley,” I said, indicating the
abandoned placards and the injured men lying nearby. “No
one is likely to join a picket line here or, when the word
gets out, anywhere in Newport again.”

Lester Sibley struggled to his feet, brushing off my
attempt to help him.

“Oh, on the contrary, Miss Davish. This incident, like the
one in the jail, proves I’m getting close to success. No,
a bump on the head and a threat from some out-of-control
car isn’t enough to stop Lester Sibley from demanding the
rights that all working people deserve!”

I was afraid he was going to say that.