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.”