The office of Monkton & Hope’s great factory hung between heaven and earth, and, at the particular moment John Sartwell, manager, stood looking out of the window towards the gates, heaven consisted of a brooding London fog suspended a hundred feet above the town, hesitating to fall, while earth was represented by a sticky black-cindered factory-yard bearing the imprint of many a hundred boots. The office was built between the two huge buildings known as the “Works.” The situation of the office had evidently been an after-thought—it was of wood, while the two great buildings which it joined together as if they were Siamese twins of industry, were of brick. Although no architect had ever foreseen the erection of such a structure between the two buildings, yet necessity, the mother of invention, had given birth to what Sartwell always claimed was the most conveniently situated office in London. More and more room had been acquired in the big buildings as business increased, and the office—the soul of the whole thing—had, as it were, to take up a position outside its body.

The addition, then, hung over the roadway that passed between the two buildings; it commanded a view of both front and back yards, and had, therefore, more light and air than the office Sartwell had formerly occupied in the left-hand building. The unique situation caused it to be free from the vibration of the machinery to a large extent, and as a door led into each building, the office had easy access to both. Sartwell was very proud of these rooms and their position, for he had planned them, and had thus given the firm much additional space, with no more ground occupied than had been occupied before—a most desirable feat to perform in a crowded city like London.

Two rooms at the back were set apart for the two members of the firm, while Sartwell’s office in the front was three times the size of either of these rooms and extended across the whole space between the two buildings. This was as it should be; for Sartwell did three times the amount; of work the owners of the business accomplished and, if it came to that, had three times the brain power of the two members of the firm combined, who were there simply because they were the sons of their fathers. The founders of the firm had with hard work and shrewd management established the large manufactory whose present prosperity was due to Sartwell and not to the two men whose names were known to the public as the heads of the business.

Monkton and Hope were timid, cautious, somewhat irresolute men, as capitalists should be all the world over. They had unbounded confidence in their manager, and generally shifted any grave responsibility or unpleasant decision to his shoulders, which bore the burdens placed upon them with equanimity. Sartwell was an iron man, with firm resolute lips, and steely blue eyes that were most disconcerting to any one who had something not quite straight to propose. Even the two partners quailed under these eyes and gave way before them if it came to a conflict of opinion. Sartwell’s rather curt “It won’t do, you know” always settled things.

Sartwell knew infinitely more about the works than they did; for while they had been at college the future manager was working his way up into the confidence of their fathers, and every step he took advanced his position in the factory. The three men were as nearly as possible of the same age, and the hair of each was tinged with grey; Sartwell’s perhaps more than the others.

It was difficult to think of love in connection with the two partners, yet it is pleasing to know that when love did come to them at the proper time of life, it had come with gold in one hand and a rigid non-conformist conscience in the other. The two had thus added wealth to wealth by marrying, and, as their wives were much taken up with deeds of goodness, done only after strict and conscientious investigation, so that the unworthy might not benefit, and as both Monkton and Hope were somewhat timorous men who were bound to be ruled by the women they married some of their wealth found its way into the coffers of struggling societies and organizations for the relieving of distress.

Thus there came to impregnate the name of Monk-ton & Hope (Limited) a certain odour of sanctity which is most unusual in business circles in London. The firm, when once got at, could be counted on for a subscription almost with certainty, but alas! it was not easy to get at the firm. The applicant had to come under the scrutiny of those searching eyes of Sartwell’s, which had a perturbing habit of getting right at the heart of a matter with astonishing quickness; and when once he said “It won’t do, you know,” there was no going behind the verdict.

A private stairway led from the yard below to the hall in the suspended building which divided the large office of the manager from the two smaller private rooms of the firm. This stairway was used only by the three men. The clerks and the public came in by the main entrance, where a watchful man sat behind a little arched open window over which was painted the word “Enquiries.”

Outside in the gloom the two great lamps over the gateposts flared yellow light down on the cindery roadway and the narrow street beyond. Through the wide open gateway into the narrow stone-paved street poured hundreds of workingmen. There was no jostling and they went out silently, which was unusual. It seemed as if something hovered over them even more depressing than the great fog cloud just above their heads. Sartwell, alone in his office, stood somewhat back from the window, unseen, and watched their exit grimly, sternly. The lines about his firm mouth tightened his lips into more than their customary rigidity. He noticed that now and then a workman cast a glance at his windows, and he knew they cursed him in their hearts as standing between them and their demands, for they were well aware that the firm would succumb did Sartwell but give the word. The manager knew that at their meetings their leader had said none was so hard on workingmen as a workman who had risen from the ranks. Sartwell’s name had been hissed while the name of the firm had been cheered; but the manager was not to be deterred by unpopularity, although the strained relations between the men and himself gave him good cause for anxiety.

As he thought over the situation and searched his mind to find whether he himself were to blame in any way, there was a rap at his door. He turned quickly away from the window, stood by his desk, and said sharply, “Come in.”

There entered a young man in workman’s dress with his cap in his hand. His face was frank, clear-cut, and intelligent, and he had washed it when his work was done, which was a weakness not indulged in by the majority of his companions.

“Ah, Marsten,” said the manager, his brow clearing when he saw who it was. “Did you get that job done in time?”

“It was off before half-past five, sir.”

“Right. Were there any obstacles thrown in your way?”

“None that could not be surmounted, sir.”

“Right again. That’s the way I like to have things done. The young man who can accomplish impossibilities is the man for me, and the man who gets along in this world.”

The young fellow turned his cap over and over in his hands, and, although he was evidently pleased with the commendation of the manager, he seemed embarrassed. At last he said, hesitatingly:

“I am very anxious to get on in the world, sir.”

“Well, you may have an opportunity shortly,” replied the manager.

Then he suddenly shot the question:

“Are you people going to strike?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Why do you say ‘afraid’? Are you going out with the others, or do you call your soul your own?”

“A man cannot fight the Union single-handed.”

“You are talking to a man who is going to.”

The young man looked up at his master.

“With you it is different,” he said. “You are backed by a wealthy company. Whether you win or lose, your situation is secure. If I failed the Union in a crisis, I could never get another situation.”

Sartwell smiled grimly when the young man mentioned the firm. He knew that there lay his weakness rather than his strength, for although the firm had said he was to have a free hand, yet he was certain the moment the contest became bitter the firm would be panic-stricken. Then, if the women took a hand in, the jig was up. If the strikers had known on which side their bread was buttered they would have sent a delegation of their wives to Mrs. Monkton and Mrs. Hope. But they did not know this, and Sartwell was not the man to show the weakness of his hand.

“Yes,” said the manager, “I have the entire confidence of Mr. Monkton and Mr. Hope. I wonder if the men appreciate that fact.”

“Oh yes, sir; they know that.”

“Now, Marsten, have you any influence with the men?”

“Very little, I’m afraid, sir.”

“If you have any, now is the time to exert it; for their sakes, you know, not for mine. The strike is bound to fail. Nevertheless I don’t forget a man who stands by me.”

The young man shook his head.

“If my comrades go, I’ll go with them. I am not so sure that a strike is bound to fail, although I am against it. The Union is very strong, Mr. Sartwell. Perhaps you do not know that it is the strongest Union in London.”

The manager allowed his hand to hover for a moment over a nest of pigeon-holes, then he drew out a paper and handed it to Marsten.

“There is the strength of the Union,” he said, “down to the seventeen pounds eight shillings and twopence they put in the bank yesterday afternoon. If you want any information about your Union, Marsten, I shall be happy to oblige you with it.”

The young man opened his eyes as he looked at the figures.

“It is a very large sum,” he said.

“A respectable fighting fund,” remarked Sartwell, impartially. “But how many Saturdays do you think it would stand the drain of the pay-roll of this establishment?”

“Not very many perhaps.”

“It would surprise you to know how few. The men look at one side of this question only, while I am compelled to look at two sides. If any Saturday their pay was not forthcoming, they would not be pleased, would they? Now I have to scheme and plan so that the money is there every Saturday, and besides there must be enough more to pay the firm for its investment and its risk. These little details may not seem important to a demagogue who knows nothing of business, but who can harangue a body of men and make them dissatisfied. I should be very pleased to give him my place here for a month or two while I took a rest, and then we would see whether he thought there was anything in my point of view.”

“Mr. Sartwell,” said Marsten, looking suddenly at the manager, “some of the more moderate men asked me to-night a similar question to one of yours.”

“What question was that?”

“They asked if I had any influence with you.”

“Yes? And you told them——?”

“That I didn’t know.”

“Well, you will never know until you test the point. Have you anything to suggest?”

“Many are against a strike, but even the more moderate think you are wrong in refusing to see the delegation. They think the refusal seems high-handed, and that if you were compelled to reject any requests made, you ought not to let things come to a crisis without at least allowing the delegation to present the men’s case.”

“And do you think I am wrong in this?”

“I do.”

“Very well. I’ll settle that in a moment. You get some of the more moderate together—head the delegation yourself. I will make an appointment with you, and we will talk the matter over.”

The young man did not appear so satisfied with this prompt concession as might have been expected. He did not reply for some moments, while the elder man looked at him critically, with his back against the tall desk.

At last Marsten spoke:

“I could not lead the delegation, being one of the youngest in the employ of the firm. The secretary of the Union is the leader the men have chosen.”

“Ah! The secretary of the Union. That is quite a different matter. He is not in my employ. I cannot allow outsiders to interfere in any business with which I am connected. I am always willing to receive my own men, either singly or in deputation, and that is no small matter where so many men are at work; but if I am to open my office doors to the outside world—well, life is too short. For instance, I discuss these things with you, but I should decline to discuss them with any man who dropped in out of the street.”

“Yes, I see the difficulty, but don’t you think you might make a concession in this instance, to avoid trouble?”

“It wouldn’t be avoiding trouble, it would merely be postponing it. It would form a precedent, and I would have this man or that interfering time and again. I would have to make a stand some time, perhaps when I was not so well prepared. If there is to be a fight, I want it now. We need some new machinery in, and we could do with a week’s shut-down.”

Marsten shook his head.

“The shut-down would be for longer than a week,” he said.

“I know that. The strike will last exactly three weeks. At the end of that time there will be no Union.”

“Perhaps there will also be no factory.”

“You mean there will be violence? Very well. In that case the strike will last but a fortnight. You see, my boy, we are in London, and there are not only the police within a moment’s call, but, back of them, the soldiers, and back of them again the whole British Empire. Oh no, Marsten, it won’t do, you know, it won’t do.

“The men are very determined, Mr. Sartwell.”

“All the better. I like a determined antagonist. Then you get things settled once for all. I don’t object to a square stand-up fight, but eternal haggling and higgling and seeing deputations and arbitrations, and all that sort of thing, I cannot endure. Let us know where we are, and then get on with our work.”

“Then you have nothing to propose, Mr. Sartwell? Nothing conciliatory, I mean.”

“Certainly I have. Let the men request that blatant ass Gibbons to attend to his secretarial duties and then let a deputation from our own workshops come up and see me. We’ll talk the matter over, and if they have any just grievance I will remedy it for them. What can be fairer than that?”

“It’s got to be a matter of principle with the men now—that is, the inclusion of Gibbons has. It means recognizing of the Union.”

“Oh, I’ll recognize the Union and take off my hat to it; that is, so far as my own employees are concerned. But I will not have an outsider, who knows nothing of this business, come up here and spout his nonsense. It’s a matter of principle with me as well as with the men.”

Marsten sighed.

“I’m afraid there is nothing for it then but a fight,” he said.

“Perhaps not. One fool makes many. Think well, Marsten, which side you are going to be with in this fight. I left a Union, and although I was older than you are at the time, I never repented it. It kept me out of employment, but not for long, and they kept me out of it in the very business of which I am now manager. The Union is founded on principles that won’t do, you know. Any scheme that tends to give a poor workman the same wages as a good workman is all wrong.”

“I don’t agree with you, Mr. Sartwell. The only hope for the workingman is in combination. Of course we make mistakes and are led away by demagogues, but some day there will be a strike led by an individual Napoleon, and then we will settle things once for all, as you said a while ago.”

Sartwell laughed, and held out his hand.

“Oh, that’s your ambition is it? Well, good luck attend you, my young Napoleon. I should have chosen Wellington, if I had been you. Good-night. I am waiting for my daughter, to whom I foolishly gave permission to call for me here in a cab.”

Marsten held the hand extended to him so long that the manager looked at him in astonishment. The colour had mounted from the young man’s cheeks to his brow and his eyes were on the floor.

“Mr. Sartwell,” he said, with an effort, “I came tonight to speak with you about your daughter and not about the strike.”

The manager dropped his hand as if it had been red-hot, and stepped back two paces.

“About my daughter?” he cried, sternly. “What do you mean?”

Marsten had to moisten his lips once or twice before he could reply. His released hand opened and shut nervously.

“I mean,” he said, “that I am in love with her.”

The manager sat down in the office chair beside his table. All the former friendliness had left his face, and his dark brows lowered over his keen eyes, into which their usual cold glitter had returned.

“What folly is this?” he cried, with rising anger. “You are a boy, and from the gutter at that, for all I know. My daughter is but a child yet; she is only——” He paused. He had been about to say seventeen when it occurred to him that he had married her mother when she was but a year older.

Marsten’s colour became a deeper red when the manager spoke so contemptuously of the gutter. He said slowly, and with a certain doggedness in his tone:

“It is no reproach to come from the gutter—the reproach is in staying there. I have left it, and I don’t intend to return.”

“Oh, ‘intend’!” cried the manager, impatiently. “We all know what is paved with intentions. Why; you have never even spoken to the girl!”

“No, but I mean to.”

“Do you? Well, I shall take very good care that you do not.”

“What have you against me, Mr. Sartwell?”

“What is there for you? Perhaps you will kindly specify your recommendations.”

“You are very hard on me, Mr. Sartwell. You know that if I came from the gutter, what education I have, I gave to myself. I have studied hard, and worked hard. Does that count for nothing? I have a good character, and I have a good situation——”

“You have not. I discharge you. You will call at the office to-morrow, get your week’s money, and go.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, ‘oh!’ You did not think that of me, did you?”

“I did not.”

“Well, for once you are right. I merely wish to show you how your good situation depends on the caprice of one man. I have no intention of discharging you. I am not so much afraid of you as that. I’ll look after my daughter.”

Marsten said bitterly:

“Gibbons, ass as he is, is right when he says that no one is so hard on a workman as one who has risen from the ranks. You were no better off than I am, when you were my age.”

Sartwell sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with anger.

“Pay attention, young man,” he cried. “All the things you have done, I have done. All the things you intend to do, I have already done. I have, in a measure, educated myself, and I have worked hard night and day. I have attained a certain position, a certain responsibility, and a certain amount of money. I have had little pleasure and much toil in my life, and I am now growing old. Yet as I look back I see that there was as much luck as merit in what success I have had. I was ready when the chance came, that was all; if the chance hadn’t come, all my readiness would have done me little good. For one man who succeeds, a dozen, equally deserving, fail.

“Now, why have I gone through all this? Why? For myself? Not likely. I have done it so that she may not have to be that tired drudge—a workman’s wife—so that she may begin where I leave off. That’s why. For myself, I would as soon wear a workman’s jacket as a manager’s coat. And now, having gone through all this for her sake—you talk of love! What is your love for her compared to mine? When I have done all this that she might never know what it means, shall I be fool enough, knave enough, idiot enough, to thrust her back where I began, at the beck of the first mouthing ranter who has the impudence to ask for her? No, by God, no! Now you have had your answer, get out, and don’t dare to set foot in this office until you are sent for.”

Sartwell in his excitement smote the desk with his clenched fist to emphasize his sentences. Marsten shrank before his vehemence, realizing that no workman had ever seen the manager angry before, and he dreaded the resentment that would rise in Sartwell’s heart when the coldness returned. He felt that he would have been more diplomatic to have left sooner. Nevertheless, seeing that things could be no worse, he stood his ground.

“I thought,” he said, “that it would be honourable in me to let you know——”

“Don’t talk to me of honour. Get out.”

At that moment the door from the private stairway opened and a young girl came in. Her father had completely forgotten his appointment with her, and both men were taken aback by her entrance.

“I knocked, father,” she said, “but you did not hear me.”

“In a moment, Edna. Just step into the hall for a moment,” said her father, hurriedly.

“I beg of you not to leave, Miss Sartwell,” said Marsten, going to the other door and opening it. “Good-night, Mr. Sartwell.”

“Good-night,” said the manager, shortly.

“Good-night, Miss Sartwell.”

“Good-night,” said the girl sweetly, with the suggestion of a bow.

The eyes of the two men met for a moment, the obstinacy of the race in each; but the eyes of the younger man said defiantly:

“I have spoken to her, you see.”