“Yes. I ought to tell you, Willy. I think the men are right.”
He stared at her incredulously.
“Right?” he said. “Why, my dear child, most of them want to strike about as much as I want delirium tremens. I've talked to them, and I know.”
“A slave may be satisfied if he has never known freedom.”
“Oh, fudge,” said Willy Cameron, rudely. “Where do you get all that? You're quoting; aren't you? The strike, any strike, is an acknowledgment of weakness. It is a resort to the physical because the collective mentality of labor isn't as strong as the other side. Or labor thinks it isn't, which amounts to the same thing. And there is a fine line between the fellow who fights for a principle and the one who knocks people down to show how strong he is.”
“This is a fight for a principle, Willy.”
“Fine little Cardew you are!” he scoffed. “Don't make any mistake. There have been fights by labor for a principle, and the principle won, as good always wins over evil. But this is different. It's a direct play by men who don't realize what they are doing, into the hands of a lot of—well, we'll call them anarchists. It's Germany's way of winning the war. By indirection.”
“If by anarchists you mean men like my uncle—”
“I do,” he said grimly. “That's a family accident and you can't help it. But I do mean Doyle. Doyle and a Pole named Woslosky, and a scoundrel of an attorney here in town, named Akers, among others.”
“Mr. Akers is a friend of mine, Willy.”