“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.”