“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.”