When Bricky Hoover came into strike-headquarters that morning Lamar was still there, and he was alone. Hoover, too, had the appearance of a man who had been suffering from both a physical and a mental strain. His clothing was wrinkled and soiled, his face was swollen, his eyes were bloodshot, and when he threw his cap on the table he disclosed a tangled shock of red hair that for twenty-four hours at least had not felt the civilizing effect of a comb.
Lamar looked up at him and scowled.
“Bricky,” he said, “you were drunk last night. You were no good. Don’t you know that you can’t afford to swill booze while this strike is on?”
“I know it, Steve,” he replied. “I admit I was drunk. But the thing got on my nerves and I had to stiddy myself somehow. I took a drop too much, that’s all. What’s the next move?”
“The next move is to call off the strike.”
“Call it off? What for?”
“Because we’re licked. And the only chance for the men to get anything is to go ask for it, one by one.”
“I say we ain’t licked. And they won’t a man git ’is job back by goin’ and askin’ for it. I know. Wasn’t I on the comity that went to see the old man yisterday? I crawled on me belly to ’im; told ’im I’d quit the city, leave the state, go drown meself, do anything, if he’d take the bunch back on the old terms. He snarled at me an’ wouldn’t listen to it. I told ’im I’d do the same thing if he’d take the men back, one by one, as he wanted ’em. He come down on me like a thousand o’ brick. Said he’d ruther see his mills burn down than take back a single traitor of us. Banged ’is fist on the table an’ called me a Judas Ischariot. I told you all that last night. Steve, no man can’t call me a Judas Ischariot an’ save ’is skin. This strike is goin’ on.”
“But I tell you it can’t go on. The old man’s got us by the throat and he’s choking us to death.”