COME with me, Marsten,” said Braunt. “Let us get out of this crowd. I want a word with you.”
The two made their way to a quieter street, and walked together towards Rose Garden Court, talking as they went.
“This foolish strike must stop,” began the York-shireman, “and now is the time to stop it. The men are tired of it, and the masters are sick of it; but neither will give in, so a way must be found out of the tangle, and you are the man to find the way.”
“How? The men won’t throw over Gibbons, and Sartwell will resign before he will confer with him. Remember how Gibbons swayed the men last night, in spite of the grumbling there had been against him before the meeting opened.”
“Yes, I know. But, my lad, there is dissension in the other camp as well as in ours. Sartwell’s coming out as he did just now was as much defiance of his masters as of his men. If we knew the truth of it, both Monkton and Hope wanted him to come with them and their bodyguard. He refused. From what I hear, Mr. Hope was so frightened this morning that he could not have spoken if his life had depended upon it. There must have been some hot talk between the three to-day. Sartwell underestimates the danger, and the two owners perhaps overestimate it. What I am sure of is, that there is division between Sartwell and the masters, and when they hear that he came out alone to-night, while they were guarded by twelve policemen, they’ll be more angry than ever, if there’s any spirit in either of them. Now, what you must do to-morrow is to meet either Monkton or Hope, or both if possible. You’ll see they won’t look near the works again until this strike’s ended. I’d go to Mr. Hope first if I were you. He’s had the worst fright. Tell him you want to end the trouble, and he’ll listen willingly. Very likely he has some plan of his own that Sartwell won’t let him try. If you get him to promise to give us what we want if we throw over Gibbons, we’ll spring that on the meeting, and you’ll see, if we work it right, Gibbons will be thrown over. Then there will be no trouble with Sartwell.”
“It seems a treacherous thing to do,” said Marsten, with some hesitation.
“God’s truth, lad,” cried Braunt, with some impatience, “haven’t they been treating you like a traitor ever since this strike began? What’s the difference, if it does look like treachery? Think of the wives and children of the men, if not of the men themselves; think of those that no one has given a thought to all these weeks, the women workers in the top floor of the works. They’ve had little strike pay; they have no vote at the meetings, and they have to suffer and starve when they are willing to work. Treachery? I’d be a traitor a thousand times over to see the works going again.”
“I’ll do it,” said Marsten.
The young man had no money to waste on railway fare, so next morning early he set his face to the west, and trudged along the Portsmouth road the twelve miles’ distance between London and Surbiton.
As he walked up the beautifully kept drive to the Hope mansion, he thought he saw the owner among the trees at the rear, pacing very dejectedly up and down a path. Marsten hesitated a moment, but finally decided to apply formally at the front door. The servant looked at him with evident suspicion, and, after learning his business, promptly returned, saying Mr. Hope could not see him. The door was shut upon him, but Marsten felt sure Mr. Hope had not been consulted in the matter; so, instead of going out by the gate he had entered, he went around the house to the plantation beyond, and there came upon Mr. Hope, who was much alarmed at seeing a stranger suddenly appear before him.