As for Stacey, he said nothing at all. He had that much sense anyway, he told himself. He’d have to face his father later on; for the present he wanted to be as nearly forgotten as possible. So he sat still and commented silently on the shifting fortunes of the battle.
“Have a cigar, Edwards?” asked Mr. Carroll, holding out his case. (Good! There was a touch of something more personal in this.)
“No, thank you, sir.” (Oh, confound it! why didn’t he take one?).
Edwards drew his papers from his pocket. “Mr. Carroll,” he said, “I’m not going to talk to you at all about social theories or about what sort of stock it is that the street-railway company wants to pay dividends on.” (“Well, damn it, then, don’t!” cried Stacey internally.) “I only want to show you, in figures, the condition of the employees just as men; what they were getting, what they’re going to get if they accept this cut in wages, what it costs a family of three to live to-day.” And he began to read.
He did not read aloud very well. He stuttered a little over a word now and then. But there was an intensity in his deep voice that lent an odd warmth to the figures about groceries, fuel, wages, and the rest. Mr. Carroll must see that the man was in deadly earnest.
When he had finished reading he stretched out the papers. “Want to see them?” he demanded abruptly.
Mr. Carroll shook his head. He was frowning and chewing at the end of his cigar. “The trouble is,” he began, but with less than his usual firmness, “that you can’t separate facts from principles. Labor—”
“Oh,” cried Catherine suddenly, “you must!”
Two of the three men started and turned toward her; Stacey had been looking at her already.
But Catherine’s eyes were fixed now on the guest. “Do you mean, Mr. Edwards,” she asked, in a voice that revealed both compassion and scorn, “that the highest wage of any employee would be only forty cents an hour?”