At length, Mr. Oliver resolved to take a bold step and meet the so-called strike half-way. He gave orders that the men should come together into one of the buildings, and he met them there.
But he had no idea that Alf and Bert, who were like their father's shadows, had followed him in and now stood behind him on a platform made of a few planks laid upon barrels.
"My men," said Mr. Oliver in a loud, clear voice, "something is wrong with you; anyone can see it! You won't work, and I am running the factory at a loss. Well, now! Let us say you are tired, and this being so, I am going to give you all a holiday. To-morrow this factory will be closed, your wages paid, and you will all be discharged.
"Those of you who wish to return to your duty, and do it properly, may come back in a week's time, when the works will open again. But any men who return later than that will find their places filled by new hands.
"Now, foremen of the various departments, see that my orders are carried out. Put out the fires, pile up the empty barrels tidily, put away the tools, lock up everything, and bring the keys to me. I have no more to say—the matter now lies with you. Good-night, my men."
Only one or two loyal voices made response; the rest of the workmen kept silence. Two and two they filed past the manager, some looking nervous and frightened, others sullen, evil and threatening.
Alf pulled Bert's sleeve.
"Look at that squinting pudding of an Anton," said he. "Doesn't he look as if he meant mischief?"
"What can he do?" replied Bert. "Isn't the place to be closed for a week? And perhaps he's one of those who won't come back."
"I don't know; I fancy he's one of the worst of them, and now dad's nipped their little plot in the bud, that villain will think of something else to do. I'm sure of it."