Hilary Wainwright tapped with his gavel, a little sound like a woodpecker. Every one but Katya was looking at Tom now.
"Just—about—as—long as it will take to bring in those strike-breakers." Black Tom's stained hand moved in a quick, drawing motion, gathering the strike-breakers to him. "Just that long and no longer. Bring them on," he commanded. "You can't bring them too soon. Bring them, dozens, hundreds, thousands—you will need them all."
The heavy hands moved now in a low, undulating wave, the wave of advancing thousands. Anne felt Roger rigid beside her and her own heart was beating thickly. The force of the man was terrific. It rayed from his gaunt body, burned in his deep-set, brown eyes. "Bring them, I tell you, bring them, the poor, starving victims you'll fool with higher wages than you're paying the present ones; hand out the promises you're laughing in your sleeves to see them believe. But—they won't believe them long. They'll take the jobs because they have to, with shame in their hearts, the decent ones, and in the end they'll come to us." He paused, and a smile, so sad, so understanding, so full of pity lit his face that Anne saw Roger's hands grip the chair arms.
Instantly Hilary Wainwright seized the opening. "That's the spirit that's doing so much harm. We came here to-night, each to take advantage of the other's greater knowledge along certain lines, but we can get nowhere unless——"
"Unless liars like you get out," Black Tom thundered, filling the room with the fury of his anger, although he scarcely raised his voice. It was the warning rumble of thunder, distant, rolling nearer. "You've held the power, until the best of you have forgotten that God Almighty didn't create the world for you. But he didn't and He's getting sick of seeing the mess you've made of it. Not much longer, not so very long now." In the pleasantly warmed air before him he seemed to see a vision, a vision that suddenly quelled his anger. He smiled a slow, understanding smile of love and forgiveness. "You can't do it; why do you try? It's not you against us; can't you see that? It's the new against the old, the worn out, the rotten. It's not this strike, or any one strike; it's men, men beating their way up out of the dark below. They're coming, coming." His head, bent now, seemed to hear them in the stillness that filled the room. "Coming slowly, with bleeding feet, the way your God marched on to Calvary, but—nothing will stop them. Nothing." And then he laughed, so genuinely amused, that the terrible silence shattered in little clicks of disgust. "Strike-breakers! Good God, a bunch of starving boobs—to hold back the Social Revolution!"
The apricot-colored woman was the first to move. With a decisive gesture she snapped her gold lorgnette and motioned the bald-headed man to bring her cape. At his desk, Hilary Wainwright looked helplessly about for a moment, then rose and walked down to the group of directors.
Katya Orloff drew on the jacket she had only partly loosed. The pretty girl was already pulling a grass-green tam over the chestnut curls.
"Come on, Tom. Pete and Ikey are having a blowout. Let's beat it. There's lots of time."
The man did not seem to hear, but he followed her. Too impatient for the elevator, whose driver, expecting a protracted "row," had gone into the pool parlor in the next basement, they ran down the stairs. Before they turned the first flight, Anne heard the girl laughing gayly.
Katya stepped up to Roger with a look that Anne resented personally. It was the smile of an older person to a small boy, not a precocious annoying small boy, but the kind of boy one refers to as "an exceedingly bright little chap."