Through September and October the labor situation grew more and more acute. It was not that labor made unreasonable demands which Potter could not satisfy; it was not class unrest, not the work of professional agitators—it was fear. Some agency was skilfully and systematically frightening the men who worked on the government’s motor. Potter discussed the phenomenon with his father.

“The men are restless,” he said, bitterly. “One day they’re going to walk out in a mob.”

“Can’t you satisfy them?” Fabius Waite said, looking at the problem from the old angle of capital and labor.

“That’s a thing that doesn’t enter into it, father. They’re frightened. They have cause. I’m frightened myself.”

“Well?”

“We’ve been delayed. We should have been delivering in quantities by this date, but what have we done? Not even a miserable dribble of motors has gone out. Not enough to experiment with, enough to play with in a few aviation camps.... But we’ve got to equip an army. Small things have happened, but every one of them is threatening, and the men see and worry about them.”

“Bosh!”

“It’s not bosh, father! These men aren’t soldiers, trained to risk their lives. They are ordinary working-men, trying to support their families. I’m afraid for them. We’re getting along now, in spite of all delays. We’re getting in shape to produce. It’s the moment we are ready that I’m afraid of, the moment when these sabotage tactics have to be thrown in the discard. The man who is organizing this thing knows we will get ready in spite of all he can do.... He’s planning for that day. I’d bet my life on it. When we are ready he’ll be ready—and he’ll strike if we don’t prevent him. The moment it will pay him best to try to destroy this plant is when the plant is completed. That would be the hardest blow he could deliver, and he’s the man to deliver it. Whoever he is, he’s too much for Downs and his men.”

“Get him,” said his father.

“We’ve tried to get him for months, but we’re no nearer than we were. Downs has rounded up spies—subordinates, strong-arm men, and that sort. But they knew nothing. To break up this thing we’ve got to get the man at the top.”

“Well, get him. There’s a way. Nobody is so smart that he can hide all the roads that lead to him.”

“Downs says—”

“The devil with Downs! Go after him yourself. The way for any man to do business is to tackle the big jobs himself and leave the details to hired men. It looks like this was the big job.”

“If a trained Secret Service man falls down on it, how could I hope to do anything?”

“Because you’re not a trained Secret Service man,” said Fabius, grimly. “And because you’ve got to. And when you get him, get him good.”

Potter went back to his office, not in a happy mood. He found a delegation of machinists waiting for him.

“Mr. Waite,” said the spokesman, an oldish man with hard hands and intelligent eyes, “the men got together last night and appointed us to come to talk things over.”

“What things, Lakin?”

“It isn’t what you may be thinking, Mr. Waite. We’re satisfied. Wages and conditions are all right—but we don’t like to work here.”

“Why? What do you want?”

“The men are afraid,” Lakin said, “and I, for one, don’t blame them. Work is plenty, Mr. Waite, and every man can find a dozen places to work where there ain’t danger of his being blown sky-high. That’s the trouble.”

“Where did you get this sky-high notion?”

“The shop is full of it. The men know it. I don’t know how they know it, or who told them, but every man is as sure of it as he is of his own name. Ain’t that so, Jim?”

“It’s a-comin’,” said Jim.

“Who says so?”

“Everybody. The men know the things that have happened, and they say something worse is on the way.... They say it’ll come when the plant’s done.”

“Didn’t set any date, did they?” Potter asked, with a grim smile.

“Pretty close” said Lakin, somberly. “And you can’t expect ’em to hang around, waiting for it. I’m not goin’ to.”

Potter sat back in his chair and considered. Something must be done, and must be done at once. “Lakin,” he said, “hold the men together this noon. I’ve got something to say to them.”

“All right, Mr. Waite, but I don’t b’lieve it’ll do any good.”

At noon Potter went down to the mill-yard, where a multitude of men were expectantly assembled. He stood upon a motor truck and looked about him, and there was a thrill in his heart at the spectacle, a thrill at the thought that he was the general in command of all these men. It gave him a sense of power, a sense of his capability to accomplish.

“Men,” he said, “Lakin told me this morning what ails you. You’re afraid something is going to happen.”

“We know it,” shouted a voice.

“Very well, you know it. I’ll tell you how you know it. It’s because there are spies among you who are making it their business to spread the news, to terrify you. They’ve ruined machinery, caused delays, put every obstacle in our way, and now, when we are almost ready to do business, they’re working on you.”

“They’re goin’ to blow up this plant,” a voice called.

“By God!” said Potter, “they sha’n’t!” He stopped and glared about him. “I say they sha’n’t, and I’ll see to it they don’t!... This plant belongs to our country. It’s working for our country to give her what she needs most.” He spoke in a tone almost of reverence as one referring to a sacred place, a sacred thing. His plant was devoted to a sacred work, and in his heart he had a feeling that heaven itself would intervene between it and disaster.

“Every man of you is an American citizen,” he said, “or you wouldn’t be here.”

“You bet.... You’re darn right,” men cried here and there.

“Would you fight for your country? If there was need, would you put on uniforms and go to fight to save this country? Do you love your country?”

There was a silence, a scuffling of feet, an uneasy movement of the mass. “How about it?” Potter demanded. “Would you fight for America?”

“I calc’late we would,” said a man; “I done it in the Spanish War.” His voice was echoed; heads were nodded. “But what’s that got to do with it?” a voice demanded. “We hain’t wanted to fight.”

Potter stepped to the edge of the truck and pointed his finger in their faces. “Not a man of you need go back to work. Every man who wants to can go to the office for his pay....” He turned and pointed up to the flag that stood out in the breeze from the flagstaff above the building. “You’re working under that,” he cried. “We want nobody working under it who is a quitter. What we want here are men.... What if there is danger? Your sons and brothers and friends have gone to face real danger, the danger of the trench and the battlefield.... Are they better men than you? Are you willing to admit that they love that flag more than you? If you do admit it, we don’t want you here.... You’d fight, you say. You want to see your country victorious.... Well, make her victorious. Her victory is tied to this plant and to you. Every man of you is worth a hundred soldiers in France. That’s what you mean to America. Every motor you turn out for an aeroplane is worth a regiment. That’s what your work means.... And you want to lie down, to quit.... Great God! Is that the sort of Americans you are?... Go to the office. Somewhere we’ll find men with guts. This work sha’n’t fail because a German spy has lied in your ears and frightened you.... I’m through with you. You’re willing to let other men do your fighting and face your dangers—and you go home and hide behind your wives when danger is only whispered about. Look at that flag, if you’re not ashamed.... Look at it good, and ask yourselves if you’d rather see the German flag flying there? If you would—go on with this thing. Quit. Take your pay and run. I want fighting-men. I want men who are willing to give their lives for America if she needs them. I don’t want you.... From this minute you don’t work for me, not one of you. From this minute every employee in this plant shall be a volunteer, a man who is willing to fight. This afternoon I move my office into the shop—to be right there when the explosion comes that you’re running away from. If there’s danger I’ll be there to see it with the men in the shop.... I’m going to fight. I want to say that I wanted to fight in France. I wanted to fly an aeroplane over the German lines, but I wasn’t allowed. The War Department ordered me to stay here—and why? Because here is where the war is to be won.... And you’ll have no part in it. Some day your grandchildren will be asking you what you did to help America—and you’ll have to tell them you laid down, that you ran, that you quit in a pinch. That’s all.... The paymaster’s office is open and ready.... You’re fired.” He stopped and glared down at them, and they stood silent, astonished.

“Now,” he shouted, “are there any real Americans among you? I’m calling for volunteers to stick to the job.... Volunteers. Men who will stick to me, hell or high water, dynamite or cyclone. Who’ll stand by America! Who’ll work under that flag!” He pointed upward again. “I’m through. I’ve said all I have to say.... Now then, quitters to the paymaster... volunteers stand forward.”

A man at the far edge began to slink away. Potter watched him in tense anxiety. The men watched him. Was he the first sheep of the flock? Was he the first drop of a deluge? They waited a breathless minute; then a burly man in overalls sprang after the slinker and caught him by the shoulder.

“Git back there!” he shouted. “What the hell you think you’re doing? Git back there, you—”

“Stop,” said Potter. “Let him go if he wants to.”

“He’ll stay,” shouted the big man, “or I’ll see him carried out. He’s a brother of mine. This hain’t your business. It’s mine.... You git back there, Bob.”

Bob slunk back to his place amid jeers and shouts from the men, now in motion, milling like a herd of excited cattle.

“Volunteers!” shouted Potter. “Volunteers step this way!”

Lakin stepped forward and turned to glare at his companions. Another man joined him, and another.... Then the whole throng seemed to surge forward as if swept by a great wind, and as they swept forward they shouted. It was a man’s shout, a shout of victory, a shout of enthusiasm, a shout which told Potter that something had moved in their hearts, and the music of it was very sweet. His face glowed, his eyes burned.

“I thought it was in you,” he said, and his voice was not harsh, as it had been, but clogged with emotion and unsteady. “I had faith in you ... because you were all Americans.... Thank you, men.... The Waite Volunteers.”

Lakin jumped to the truck and shook his fist in their faces. “Cheer, damn you, cheer!” he bawled.... And they cheered.

From that day in Detroit a Waite Volunteer was a man apart; he was different, and conscious of his difference. He was a picked man; he was working, not for wages, but for the flag, and he carried himself with a pride of his own.

“Where d’you work?” a stranger would ask.

“Who? Me?... I’m one of Waite’s men.” Which stood for something and came to mean much.... And of all of them, Potter Waite was proudest. In the years of his life had been no day like this day, nor would be again.... He had found an hour of happiness.