"I—The last place I worked was Bonbright Foote, Incorporated," he said, giving his father's institution its full name.
"Urn…. Strikin', eh?"
Bonbright nodded. He had struck. Not with a union, but as an individual.
"'Bout over, hain't it, from all I hear tell?"
"I think so," said Bonbright.
"Bad business…. Strikes is always bad—especially if the men git licked. Unions hain't no business to call strikes without some show of winnin'….. The boys talk that this strike never had no chance from the beginnin'…. I don't think a heap of that Foote outfit."
"Why?"
"Rotten place to work, I hear. A good machinist can't take no pleasure there, what with one thing and another. Out-of-date machines, and what not…. That young Foote, the cub, is a hell winder, they say. Ever see him?"
"I've seen him."
"His father was bad enough, by all accounts. But this kid goes him one better. Wonder some of them strikers didn't git excited and make him acquainted with a brick. I've heard of fightin' strikes hard—but never nothin' like this one. Seems like this kid's a hard one. Wants to smash hell out of the men just to see them smash…. How'd he strike you?"