On Saturday the men took their well-earned pay, one by one, and went out of the gates quietly, if sullenly. During the days that had intervened between the meeting and the strike, neither side had made advances to the other. If Sartwell had prepared for the struggle, these preparations had been accomplished so secretly that Gibbons failed to learn of them. The secretary of the Union issued a manifesto to the press, setting forth the position of the men in temperate phrase that had the effect of bringing public sympathy largely to the side of the workers. It was an admirable document, and most of the papers published it, some of them editorially regretting the fact that in this enlightened country and this industrial age, some hundreds of men, the bone and sinew of the land, willing to work, were forced to go into the streets in protest against a tyranny that refused even to discuss their alleged wrongs. The newspapers pointed out that whether their grievances were just or not was beside the question; as the point was that the manager had refused to see a deputation, and this high-handed conduct the papers expressed themselves as forced to deplore.

Both members of the firm thought this manifesto should be answered. The manager did not agree with them, so it was not answered.

Pickets were placed before the gates, and a few extra policemen appeared, as if by accident, in the neighbourhood; but there was nothing for either policemen or pickets to do. On Monday, some of the men lounging around the place looked up at the tall chimneys, and saw them, for the first time during their remembrance, smokeless. They had never noticed the smoke before, but now its absence created an unexpected void in the murky outlook. It was as if the finger of death had touched those gaunt lofty stacks, and the unusual silence of the place the men had always known to be so busy seemed to give the situation a lonely feeling of solemnity they had not looked, for.

On Tuesday some dray-loads of new machinery arrived at the works, and these the pickets attempted to stop, but without success. Gibbons was consulted, but he took a sensible and liberal view of the matter.

“Let them put in all the new machinery they wish. That will mean employment for more men when we go back. We will not interfere with Sartwell until he tries to fill the works with other employees.”

For the remainder of the week the shops echoed with the clang of iron on iron, but no smoke came out of the tall chimneys.

“Call this a fight?” said one of the men, over his mug of beer. “I call it a bean-feast.”

On Saturday, strike pay was given out at headquarters, each man getting his usual wage, for the Union was rich. It was indeed a bean-feast—all pay and no work.

The first week had enabled Sartwell to make repairs and to add machinery that had long been needed; but it had another effect which he considered more important still. It allowed Mr. Monkton and Mr. Hope to recover their second wind, as it were. These good but timorous men had been panic-stricken by the going out of their employees, and by the adverse comments of the press. As nothing happened during the week they gradually regained what they called their courage, and, although they perhaps did not realize it, they were more and more committed to the fight when it did come on. They could hardly with decency, after keeping silence for a week during which there was peace, give way if afterwards there should be violence.

The vigilance of the pickets perhaps relaxed a little as time went on and there was nothing to do. But one morning they had a rude awakening. When they arrived at the gates they saw smoke once more pouring from the chimneys; there was a hum of machinery; the works were in full blast; and the former workers were outside the gates.

The news spread quickly, and the men gathered around the gates from all quarters. Gibbons was early on the ground, like an energetic general, ready to lead his men to the fray. He saw that the fight was now on, and he counselled moderation when he spoke to the excited men. It was all right, he answered them; he had expected this, and was prepared for it.

The gates were closed, and when Gibbons asked admittance to speak with the manager his request was curtly refused. This refusal did not tend to allay the excitement, nor to improve the temper of the men. The police kept the throng on the move as much as possible, but the task became more and more difficult as the crowd increased.

At noon a wagon, evidently loaded with provisions, drove down the street, and when the mob learned that its destination was the works, a cry went up that the vehicle should be upset.

Again the pacifying influence of Gibbons made itself felt, and the wagon, amidst the jeers of the bystanders, drove in, while the gates were speedily closed after it.

Gibbons retired with his captains to headquarters, where a consultation was held. There was a chance that Sartwell, during the first week, when it was supposed he was putting in new machinery, had also been building dormitories for his new men, and that he was going to keep them inside the gates, free from the influence of the Union.

This plan had not been foreseen by Gibbons, and he was unprepared for it.

“The men must come out sooner or later, and when they do we will have a talk with them,” said the secretary. “My own opinion is that they will come out to-night at the usual hour, and I propose to act on that supposition. If I find I am wrong, we will meet again to-night, and I will have some proposals to make. In a short time we shall be able to learn whether the scabs are coming out or not. Meanwhile, get back among our own men, and advise them not to make any hostile demonstration when the blacklegs appear; and when the scabs come out, let each man of you persuade as many as you can to come to the big hall, where we can have a talk with them. Tell the men that if there is any violence they will be merely playing into Sartwell’s hands. We don’t want the police down on us, and, until there is a row, they will at least remain neutral.”

This advice commended itself to all who heard it, and, the details of the programme having been ar ranged, they all departed for the scene of conflict.

Promptly at six o’clock the gates were thrown open, and shortly after the “blacklegs” began to pour forth into the street. There were no hootings nor jeerings, but the strikers regarded the new-comers with scowling looks, while the latter seemed rather uncomfortable, many of them evidently apprehensive regarding their reception.

“Men,” cried Gibbons, “who is your leader? I want a word with him.”

The stream of humanity paused for a moment, in spite of the commands of the police to move along. The men looked at one another, and Gibbons quickly recognized the state of things—they were strangers to each other, coming as they did from all parts of England. This surmise was confirmed by one man, who spoke up:

“We’ve got no leader,” he said.

“Then you be the spokesman,” cried Gibbons. “Did you men know, when you came here, that there was a strike on?”

“Something of that sort,” replied the spokesman, sullenly.

“Do you belong to a Union?”

“The Union never did nowt for us.”

“Do you know that you are taking bread from the mouths of other workers?”

“We must put bread into our own mouths.”

At this point the police captain touched Gibbons on the shoulder.

“I can’t allow this obstruction,” he said.

“Give me two minutes,” pleaded Gibbons.

“No—nor one.”

Gibbons turned savagely upon him.

“Look here,” he said. “Have some tact and sense. Don’t you know that I have merely to raise my hand and this crowd will sweep you and your men off the face of the earth?”

“That won’t prevent me from sweeping you into prison.”

“Certainly not. But you can arrest me quietly, when you like, or I’ll meet you at the police station any hour you name, but if you attempt to interfere now, you’ll have a riot on your hands. I’m holding this crowd in check—it is not their fear of you. There’s no traffic coming through this street nor likely to come. We’re therefore obstructing nothing, and I’m as anxious as you are to keep the men within the law. Good heavens! you may have your hands full at any moment, so don’t push patient people over the line. Remember, you are not in Sartwell’s employ. I only want a few words with these men, then we’ll leave the street to you.”

The captain hesitated a moment. It was an ominous mob.

“Look sharp then,” he said, and stepped back.

“Come with us,” cried Gibbons. “We can’t talk here. Come to the big hall, and, if, you don’t like what we say there will be no harm done. This is a free country.”

The secretary turned as if he had no doubt the crowd would follow, and the leaderless men walked after him. Gibbons’ assistants mixed among them, and talked persuasively with the strangers. Before half an hour all the “blacklegs,” were in the Salvation Army hall, signing the Union roll and being put on the strike-pay list.

It was a notable triumph for Gibbons; first blood, as a sporting-man would say.

Next morning, when the gates were opened, not a man entered, and Sartwell once more found himself without an employee. After the gates had remained invitingly open for half an hour, they were closed again, and a great cheer went up as the two big iron-bolted leaves came together.

Sartwell’s resources, however, were not yet exhausted, for two days later the factory was thronged with workmen once more, and these also Gibbons bought from under the manager.

Thus the game went on, and it convinced the men that their secretary knew a thing or two, being more than a match for the manager. Gibbons carried himself confidently, and talked with grand assurance that he was perhaps far from feeling, for he became more and more haggard and anxious as the fight continued. He alone knew the seriousness of the increased drain on the resources of the Union, through the forced support of the new hands he had lured away from Sartwell’s employ, and which had upset all his previous calculations. An attempt had been made to lighten the burden by trying to induce the new men to return to their homes, and this had been partially successful with the first lot, but the others obstinately insisted on getting their share of the strike pay, and refused even to consider the advisability of returning. They demanded what was promised them, or threatened to enter the works in a body, which action would have speedily put and end to the contest. Gibbons was well supported by that section of the press which gave more than a few lines each day to the progress of the strike. One morning the chief of these papers came out with an appeal to the public for aid. The case of the strikers, battling, it might be, at first for their own rights, but fighting in reality for all working humanity, was most convincingly and tersely put in a double-leaded editorial, and the journal itself headed the list with a handsome contribution. Would the people of England hold aloof, reduce these workers into slaves, using the weapon of grim starvation against them? The journal did not believe such apathy existed, and its belief was amply justified, for subscriptions poured rapidly in, together with indignant letters from all parts of the country, which were duly printed in its columns.

The first pinch of the strike came on the men when it was suddenly announced that strike pay would, the next Saturday, be cut down to one-quarter the amount they were then receiving. There was a good deal of grumbling and some inquiries as to what they were fighting for, but, on the whole, the disastrous proclamation was received quietly, if somewhat grimly.

“We are bound to win,” said Gibbons, when he was reluctantly compelled to tell the men of the reduction. “The firm is losing nearly a thousand pounds a week by the factory remaining idle, and it is not likely they will stand that long, even to oblige Sartwell.”

Gibbons had not the courage to add that even with this reduction the Union could not hold out more than a week longer; that it was practically at the end of its resources, and that future strike pay would have to depend on the subscriptions received from the outside, a most precarious source of revenue, for every one knows how short-lived enthusiasm is, and how the collection of hard cash destroys it.

There is much in good generalship, and one of its axioms is that you should endeavour to discover your enemy’s weakest point. Never once did it dawn on Gibbons or any of his lieutenants, that the fortress they were attacking had only to be approached in one direction, when the walls would have crumbled like those of Jericho; never did it occur to him that Sartwell was fighting at the same time two battles—one with the men and one with the masters, and of the two contests he feared the result of the latter most. Sartwell was between two fires; he had urged both Monkton and Hope to quit England until the fight was over, and leave the conducting of it to him. They vacillated; in the evening Sartwell might have their promise, but in the morning they had changed what they were pleased to call their minds. They always feared the worst. They saw the factory in flames, and the mob shot down by troops. They implored Sartwell to come to some agreement with the men. He had said the strike would be over in three weeks, and here it was still dragging on, the men as determined as ever. If he were wrong about the duration of the fight, might he not be wrong also in his treatment of the men? Was no compromise possible?

This sort of thing Sartwell had to contend with, and it wearied him more than the strike itself. He opened the papers in daily fear that he would find there some letter from the firm, in answer to the strictures of the day before, which would show the public at once how the land lay.

Gibbons believed that the backbone of a fight was money, as in many cases it is; but a moment’s reflection might have shown him that, if the fight was to be conducted on a cash basis, the strikers had not a ghost of a chance, because the firm of Monkton & Hope was much richer than the Union. He believed in fighting the devil with fire. Adages are supposed to represent the condensed wisdom of the ages, whereas they too often represent condensed foolishness. If one has to meet an expert swordsman on the field of honour, he should select a pistol if he has the choice of weapons. Fight the devil if you like, but never with fire. When Marsten had said to Gibbons, “Mr. Sart-well knows to a penny how much you have in the bank,” the secretary had answered grandly that Sart-well might see the books of the Union for all he cared, and much good might it do him. The fact that a man like Sartwell thought it worth his while to find out what the enemy was doing, did not suggest to Gibbons that it might not be a bad plan to have a look over Sartwell’s shoulders, and discover just how things were going in the privacy of the manager’s office. When Marsten ferreted out various things as the fight progressed, and brought his knowledge to Gibbons, the latter waved it aside as of no consequence, treating Marsten throughout as an enemy in the camp.

Timid little Mr. Hope passed through the gates each day to his office, scarcely ever glancing at the crowd that hooted him and made remarks not pleasant to hear. He dreaded the moment of arriving and leaving, but thought it a courageous thing to do, imagining he would be neglecting his duties as a freeborn Briton if he deserted his post at this time of danger.

If Gibbons had been a shrewd man, he would have called upon Mr. Hope at Surbiton, and ten minutes’ conversation there would have shown him the true state of affairs, for the timid little manufacturer was as transparent as crystal. If the secretary had lured one of the partners to the strikers’ place of meeting, which might have been accomplished as easily as with the “blacklegs” from the country, he would in all probability have had a public statement which would have made Sartwell’s resignation inevitable. Thus might Gibbons have led his army to victory, and at the same time have placed his enemy where his army then was—outside the gates.

And this was merely one of the methods by which a clever general would have triumphed. If Gibbons had taken the trouble to inform himself about the effect the few editorials had produced in the minds of the partners, he would have endeavoured to make arrangements for the publication of a series of articles on the well-known philanthropy of the firm, with some moral reflections about charity beginning at home. This undoubtedly would have caused the ground to crumble away beneath the feet of Sartwell, for Monk-ton & Hope were proud of the good their benefactions were supposed to do; and until this trouble had arisen, they had thought themselves just employers, who treated their men with fairness, as indeed they were, and as indeed they did.

Now they were in doubt about the matter, and had an uneasy feeling that they had been, perhaps, remiss in their duties toward their employees. Sartwell dominated them when he was in their presence, and they knew his value too well to run the risk of losing him. They knew, also, if they gave way to the men without his sanction, they would lose him, and they had rivals in London who would be only too glad to take him into their employ; yet in spite of this knowledge they wavered, and it required but a little tact and diplomacy on the part of Gibbons to win a victory all along the line.