SARTWELL showed little sign of the wear and tear of the struggle. He walked from the station to his office every morning at his usual hour, as if everything were going on to his entire satisfaction. He was always dressed with scrupulous neatness, and he invariably carried in his hand a trimly folded umbrella, which no one had ever seen him undo, for when it rained he took a cab. The umbrella seemed a part of him, and a purely ornamental part; he was never met on the street without it. No man could say when Sartwell purchased a new suit of clothes; each suit was precisely the same as the one that preceded it, and it was always put on before its predecessor began to show signs of wear.

There was as little change in Sartwell’s demeanour towards his men as there was in his clothes. He did not keep his eyes on the ground as he passed along the street to the gates, nor was there, on the other hand, any belligerency in his manner. The men had gone out; that was their affair; he nodded to them or bade them a curt “Good-morning,” as had been his habit before the trouble. Few of them had the presence of mind to do otherwise than raise their fingers to their caps or answer, with the customary mumble, “Mornin’, sir.” Habit is strong in the human animal, as has often been pointed out.

No one of all those concerned was more anxious for the strike to end than Sartwell, but none the less was he determined that it should end his way. He saw the openings in his armour through which, with a blindness not understandable to the manager, Gibbons neglected to thrust.

Curiously enough, it was not Gibbons that Sartwell feared in this contest, but Marsten. He knew the young man had been strongly against the strike, but he also knew that he had thrown in his lot with the men; and although the leaders of the strike, up to that time, had held aloof from Marsten, pretending to look upon him as a covert traitor to the cause, still Sartwell feared they might take him into their counsels at last, and that he would show them the way out of their difficulties. The manager had made it his business to learn all he could of what was done by his opponents, and he had been amazingly successful. He knew of Marsten’s visit to Barney and of the generally futile result of that conference; but he had so slight a confidence in Barney’s good sense, that he feared some hint might have been dropped by the artist which would show the men how anxious Monkton & Hope were for a settlement on almost any terms. As time passed, and Sartwell saw that Gibbons still held Marsten at arm’s length, he became less and less anxious. Affairs were rapidly approaching a crisis when Marsten’s aid would be useless.

A few days after the announcement of the reduction in strike pay had been made, Sartwell, approaching the gates in the morning, saw Marsten standing alone at the street corner. The manager had almost passed him without greeting on either side, when the elder man suddenly stopped, turned half around, and said sharply:

“On picket duty, Marsten?”

“No, Mr. Sartwell.”

“Not in their confidence, perhaps.”

“I suppose I am neither in their confidence, nor in yours, Mr. Sartwell.”

“Rather an uncomfortable position, is it not? I should like to be one thing or the other if I were in your place, Marsten.”

“I am one thing. I am entirely with the men.”

“Perhaps in that case you are afraid to be seen talking with me. Some of the men might happen to pass this way.”

“I am not afraid to be seen speaking with anybody, Mr. Sartwell.”

“Ah, you are young; therefore you are brave. I have known a smaller thing than this conversation to cost a man his life, but perhaps times and methods have changed since my early days. It is a pity you are on the wrong side for your bravery to be appreciated. The masters of this world always value talent and courage, and pay well for them. The men do neither. That is why they are usually beaten in a fight, and it is one of the many reasons why they should be. I have a few words to say to you; the street corner is not a good place for a private conversation; will you come to my office in an hour’s time?”

“Do you wish to speak about the strike?”

“Yes,” said Sartwell, looking with some intentness at the young man. “We have no other subject of mutual interest that I know of.”

“Very good. I merely asked, because whatever you may have to tell me, I shall use in the interests of the men.”

Sartwell shrugged his shoulders.

“You are quite welcome,” he said, “to make what use you please of the information I shall give you. I am well aware that your advice is in demand by the men and their leaders.”

The elder man walked briskly on; the younger reddened at the covert sneer in his last remark.

“My God,” he said to himself, angrily, “I would like to fight that man.”

Marsten turned and walked rapidly to the strike headquarters. There he found Gibbons and the committee in consultation, while a few of the men lounged about the place. The talk ceased as Marsten entered the room, the committee and its chairman looking loweringly at him.

“What do you want?” asked Gibbons, shortly.

“I met Mr. Sartwell a moment ago in the street and he said he had something to tell me about the strike; he asked me to call at his office in an hour’s time. I promised to do so, but told him any information he gave me I should use in the interests of the men.”

“And so you came here, I suppose, to get some information to give in return?”

Marsten had resolved not to allow himself to be taunted into anger, but he saw he had no easy task before him. He was going to do his duty, he said to himself, and help his comrades if he could; the situation was too serious for recrimination.

“No. I shall tell him nothing. If he wants information I shall refer him to you. I thought he perhaps might say something that would be of value for us to know, and so I came to tell you that I am going to his office.”

“Us? Who do you mean by us?”

“The men on strike. I am on strike as well as the others. I have lost a situation, even if you haven’t,” retorted the young man, knowing as he spoke that he was not keeping to his resolution.

“Well,” said Gibbons, taking no notice of the other’s insinuation, “you don’t need to come here for permission to visit Sartwell’s office. I suppose you have often been there before.”

“I have not been there since the strike began.”

“Oh, haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t. Do you mean to assert that I have?”

“I assert nothing. It merely seems strange to me that you should come bawling here, saying you are going to consult Sartwell. It has nothing to do with us. Go and come as you please, for all I care.”

The members of the committee murmured approval of the chairman’s firm stand, and Marsten, seeing there was little use in further delay, turned on his heel and left them. The men lounging around the door nodded to him in a friendly manner as he went out, and the committee presumably continued its deliberations, untroubled by the interruption.

The young man walked down the street, looking neither to the right nor to the left, sick at heart, rather than angry, with the fatuous pettiness of Gibbons’s resentment, who would rather wound and humiliate a man he disliked, than accept help when it was freely offered.

“How different,” said Marsten to himself, “is the conduct of Sartwell! He has more cause to detest me than Gibbons has, yet he asks me to confer with him. He does not despise the smallest card in his hand, while Gibbons may be throwing away a trump, if I were mean enough, and traitor enough to the men, to refuse to tell what I may learn. Sartwell, parting with me in anger, hails me on the street, merely because he thinks he can use me to serve his employers. That he likes me no better than he did when I left him, is shown by the sting in his talk, yet he puts down his personal feelings, hoping to win a trick; while Gibbons, the fool, although approached in a friendly way, does his sneaking little best to drive a man over to the enemy. I wonder what Sartwell wants to discover. I’ll tell him nothing; but what a man he is to fight for—or against!”

“Hold hard, youngster. Where are you going?” cried the picket at the gate.

“I’m going to see Mr. Sartwell.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.”

“It’s all right, mate; I’ve just come from headquarters. I am going with the committee’s consent and Gibbons’s permission.”

“What’s on?” asked the picket in a whisper, while others of the strikers crowded around.

“Is the jig up? Are we going to give in?”

“There’s nothing new. I’ll know more when I come out. Perhaps Sartwell has something to propose; we haven’t.”

The men drew back, with a simultaneous sigh that may have indicated relief, or perhaps disappointment. The sternness of their resolution to hold out did not increase under reduced strike pay. Their organization was disintegrating, rotting; each man knew it and was suspicious of his comrades. The heart had gone out of the fight.

Marsten, crossing the deserted and silent yard, mounted the stairs, and rapped at the manager’s door. He found Sartwell alone, standing at his desk, with some papers before him.

“Now, Marsten,” began the manager brusquely, turning from his desk, “you think I’ve asked you here to learn something from you, and you have firmly resolved to tell me nothing. That’s right. I like to see a man stick to his colours. We save the ship if we can; if she sinks we go down with her. You may be surprised then to know that I am not going to ask you a single question. That will relieve your mind and enable you to give full attention to what I have to tell you. I hope, however, that you will keep your word and remember the promise you made me a short time since on the street.”

“What promise?”

“Have you forgotten it? Perhaps you thought it was a threat. You said you would give the men the information you received. I hold you to that. To tell Gibbons is not necessarily to tell the men. You said you would let the men know.”

“I will repeat your conversation to Gibbons and the committee.”

“Ah, that’s not what you said. Neither Gibbons nor the committee were mentioned in our talk this morning.”

“As near as I can recollect, I said I would use what information I received in the interests of the men.”

“Quite so. I am as anxious about the men’s welfare as you are, and what I have to say to you must reach them. If you tell it to Gibbons and the committee, and if they do not pass it on to the men, as they will take precious good care not to do, I shall then learn whether you are a man of your word or not. The strikers meet to-night at the Salvation Hall. If Gibbons does not inform them what he will then know, I shall expect you to stand up in your place and add to the enlightenment of the situation. When you were here last I showed you a sheet of paper, at the top of which was written the resources, for the moment, of the Union. The remainder of the sheet was blank, but it is now filled up. It shows the expenditure, week by week, up to the last payment made to those on strike. If you cast your eye over this sheet, you will see that the Union is now bankrupt.”

“If that is all you have to tell me, Mr. Sartwell, it is no news. The men already know they are depending on public subscriptions.”

“And they still believe in Gibbons as a leader?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Now, I come to what is news—news to you, to Gibbons, and to the men. Most of this money has gone to loafers from the east end of London. I had such unlimited confidence in Gibbons’s foolishness and in the stupidity of the committee, that I have sent through the gates, not workmen like you, but such unfortunate wretches as were out of work and willing to absorb strike pay merely on condition that they would keep their mouths shut. It never seemed to occur to Gibbons that, if I were able to fill up the works with men transported to our river-steps on a steamer, I could either have fed and lodged them here, or taken them back and forth in the same way they came. He gathered them into the Union with a whoop, which was just what I expected him to do, but he never tried to find out whether they were genuine workmen or not.”

“You mean, then, that by a trick you have bankrupted the Union.”

Sartwell shrugged his shoulders.

“Call it a trick, if you like. A strike is war; you must not expect it to be fought with rose-leaves. But aside from that, I have borne in mind the real interests of the men. I could have filled the works with competent men—yes, ten times over. If I had done so, where would the strikers be at the end of the fight? Some would be in prison, some would have broken heads, all would be out of employment. I want my own men back here. I want them to understand they have got a fool for a leader. They have had a nice little play spell; they have eaten and drank their money—the vacation has come to an end. If they return to work now, there is work for them; if they delay much longer, I shall fill the shops with genuine workmen, and the Union has no money now to bribe them with.”

“If I tell the men all this, there will be a riot. They will mob the bogus workmen who have taken their money.”

“Oh, no, they won’t. I have told the bogus workmen just how long the money would continue to be paid, if they held their tongues. With last week’s reduced payment the loafers have scattered. The men may mob Gibbons, and I think he richly deserves it.”

“They will be much more likely to attack you.”

“They are welcome to try it. Now, I think that is all I have to say, Marsten. I have required no answers from you, and I imagine I have given you some interesting information. I am ready to get to work, with the former employees of the firm, or without them, just as they choose. The best friend of the men will be he who advises them to call off this foolish strike and buckle down to business once more.”