One thing was apparent to Bonbright. The men believed him. They believed he had spoken the truth. He had known they would believe him; somehow he had known that. The thing had swept them off their feet. In all that multitude was not a man whose life was not to be made easier, whose wife and children were not to be happier, more comfortable, removed from worry. It was a moving sight to see those thousands react. They were drunk with it.
An old man detached himself from the mass and rushed upon the platform.
"It's true?… It's true?" he said, with tears running down his face.
"It's true," said Bonbright, standing up and offering his hand.
That was the first of hundreds. Some one shouted, hoarsely, "Hurrah for
Foote!" and the armory trembled with the shout.
The thing was done. The thing he had come to do was accomplished. There would be no strike.
Dulac had fallen silent, was sitting in his chair with his face hidden.
For him this was a defeat, a bitter blow.
Bonbright made his way to him.
"Mr. Dulac," he said, "have you found her?"
"You've bribed them…. You've bought them," Dulac said, bitterly.
"I've given them what is theirs fairly…. Have you found any trace of her?" Even in this moment, which would have thrilled, exalted another, which would have made another man drunk with achievement, Bonbright could think of Ruth. Even now Ruth was uppermost in his mind. All this mattered nothing beside her. "Have you got any trace?" he asked.