Stacey had won. But he was under no illusions. He had won by force, and he had made more enemies than friends. When he left the hall at the end of the meeting he was a solitary figure at whom men looked from a distance. He did not care. He preferred his solitude.
But outside, at the foot of the steps, Edwards, the commander, caught up with him and limped off beside him. He was a mechanic and a student, self-educated, and popular with labor. In high quarters he was solemnly suspected of being a socialist.
“What you said was right enough, Carroll,” he observed meditatively. “The trouble was with the way you said it. Too much outside. Too harsh and scornful.”
“Quite true,” Stacey assented. “That happens to be the way I personally am—harsh and scornful.”
Edwards shook his head. “You saw too much of it, I guess, Carroll,” he remarked. “Four whole years, wasn’t it? God in heaven! And more mud than we ever saw. Years more of mud! Filthy thing, the war, wasn’t it?”
Stacey laughed shortly. “Wait twenty years and see how people talk about it,” he said. “Banners waving! Steel-capped heroes! Glory! Glory! We’ll be talking that way, too.”
They walked on in silence.
“Oh, by the way, Edwards,” said Stacey suddenly, “you’re a labor man. I wish to God you’d set me right about that strike business. The thing was too silly the way it got into those rotten papers. I—”
Edwards was laughing quietly. “Pshaw!” he interrupted. “Do you think we don’t know the facts? That’s one thing we do know. The boys aren’t down on you. They’re not even down on Burnham now, though he did turn against them. Can’t say that you’re personally popular—too harsh and scornful, but you’re respected.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Stacey, with genuine relief.