“I am one of your workmen, Mr. Hope,” began Marsten, by way of reassuring the little man; but his words had an entirely opposite effect. Mr. Hope looked wildly to right and left of him, but, seeing no chance of escape, resigned himself, with a deep sigh, to dynamite, or whatever other shape this particular workingman’s arguments might take.
“What do you want?” faltered the employer at last. “I want this strike to end.”
“Oh, so do I, so do I!” cried Mr. Hope, almost in tears.
“Then, Mr. Hope, won’t you allow me to speak with you for a few moments, and see if we cannot find some way out of the difficulty?”
“Surely, surely,” replied the trembling old man, visibly relieved at finding his former employee did not intend to use the stout stick, which he carried in his hand, for the purpose of a personal assault.
“Let us walk a little further from the house, where we can talk quietly. Have you anything to propose?”
“Well, the chief trouble seems to be that Mr. Sart-well will not meet Gibbons.”
“Ah, Sartwell!” said the old man, as if whispering to himself. “Sartwell is a strong man—a strong man; difficult to persuade—difficult to persuade.” Then turning suddenly he asked, “You’re not Gibbons, are you?”
“No, my name is Marsten. Gibbons was the man who tried to speak with you yesterday at the gates.” The old man shuddered at the recollection.
“There were so many there I did not see any one distinctly, and it all took place so suddenly. I don’t remember Gibbons. It was dreadful, dreadful!”