Captain Hathaway looked around him, then took a deep breath and stood up.
"I'm all right again now. It's all come back to me. Swain," he put his hand on the man's shoulder, "will you believe me when I say I quite understand—and that's it a shame, a d—d shame! I've been away. I couldn't do anything till now." He looked at the woman by the cradle, held out his hand. "This is Mrs. Swain?" She stood staring at him, making no responsive movement. "Look here, I want to help—here"—his hand dived into his pocket, fished up a bundle of notes—"why, you're starving, woman!" He thrust them into her hand and she let them fall on the floor.
"I want work, Captain Hathaway—not charity," said Ann, shaking with temptation resisted.
The ex-officer turned to his man.
"Swain," he said. "I haven't been blind to all this—but, believe me, I couldn't do anything till now. I want to talk to you. Will you listen to me?"
It was some time later when Captain Hathaway (who had already seen his chauffeur into a police ambulance while Jim harangued the crowd into sullenness) drove his car down to the great gates of Hathaway's works. Jim Swain, the men's leader, sat by his side.
In the long boardroom, with its thick Turkey carpet, its heavy mahogany furniture, its framed photographs of former directors, the controllers of Hathaway's and its linked houses sat already at the council-table. The air was heavy with cigar smoke when Captain Hathaway entered.
"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen—no,—a little accident—I'm quite all right—nothing at all serious," so he responded to the queries evoked by his cut forehead as he sat down.