"No; we merely take advantage of their wretched conditions to secure their services cheap," said Mr. Denton bitterly; "then instead of bettering their lot we grind them lower and lower, until at last they die either forgiving or cursing us."
There was another silence more oppressive than the first; then Mr. Day rose slowly and started to leave the office.
"We are exciting ourselves foolishly, I think," he said loftily; "neither you nor I, my partners, can hope to remedy the conditions of labor."
He closed the door softly, and was free from the unpleasant atmosphere of the office.
As he did so, a young girl stepped out of the elevator and walked directly to the door which he had just closed behind him. He turned and looked at her—she was as a saint. Almost instinctively it came to him what his partner had said, that she was "not afraid of work and was honestly religious."
"Pshaw! What nonsense!" he muttered. "Think of our patterning after a saint! It is strange how death will upset some men, but they'll get over it when they hear the money jingling!"
He opened the door to his private office just as a boy came upstairs with a message from Mr. Gibson.
"Mr. Watkins was taken to the hospital last night," it read; "are we expected to do anything? There's a reporter from the Herald."
"I'll send down the answer in a moment," he said to the boy, "or, wait; tell Mr. Gibson to say that we are looking into the case, and if our employee is found to be deserving he will be cared for by the firm. The reporter can call again if he wishes anything further."
With the note in his hand he went back to the superintendent's office.