Grandon goes straight to the workroom. Half a dozen men are still at their looms.
"O Mr. Grandon!" begins Rising, with a face of the utmost anxiety, but Lindmeyer has a half-smile on his lips as he advances, which breaks into an unmirthful laugh.
"Quite a strike or an insurrection, with some muttered thunder! I hope you let them go; it will be a good day's work if you have."
"What was the trouble?" Grandon's spirits rise a trifle.
"The machinery and the new looms have been tampered with continually, just enough to keep everything out of gear. Nearly every improvement, you know, has to fight its way through opposition in the beginning. The men declare themselves innocent, and puzzled over it, but it certainly has been done. There are five excellent weavers left, Rising says."
"I would rather go on with just those a few days, until I am able to decide two or three points. And if you don't object, I should like to remain here at night."
"And we shall need a watchman. A little preventive, you know, is better than a great deal of cure."
Both men take the emeute in such good part that Grandon gains confidence. Back of this morning's dispute there has been dissatisfaction and covert insolence, and the two are thankful that the end of the trouble is reached.
Grandon returns to the office heavy hearted in spite of all. There are victories which ruin the conqueror, and even his may be too dearly bought.
A knock at the half-open door rouses him, but before he answers he knows it is Wilmarth.