And so it was. Next morning, when Theodore Marrin made the rounds of the vast loft where two hundred girls and forty-five men were busily working—the machines racing—the air pulsing with noise—Jacob Izon arose, trembling, and confronted him.
"Well, Jacob!"
"I want to tell you something."
"Go ahead."
"The men have asked me to ask you not to have us make the cloaks."
Marrin's red face seemed to grow redder.
"So, that's it!" he snapped. "Well, here's my answer. Go back to your work!"
The men had stopped working and were listening. The air was electric, ominous.
Izon spoke tremblingly.
"I am very sorry then. I must announce that the men have struck!"