“I hope you were not hurt.”
“No, no. Merely a scratch or two. Nothing to speak of. Now, what can be done about the strike?”
“Would you be prepared to grant the requests of the men, if they were to throw over Gibbons, and send a deputation to Mr. Sartwell?”
“Oh, willingly, most willingly. I don’t at all remember what it is the men want, but we’ll grant it; anything to stop this suicidal struggle. Does Sartwell know you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course he does. He knows every one in the works, by name even. A wonderful man—a wonderful man! I often wish I had more influence with him. Now, if you would go and see Mr. Sartwell—he lives at Wimbledon; it’s on your way; I asked him not to go to the works to-day, so perhaps you will find him at home—you might possibly arrange with him about receiving a deputation. Perhaps it would be best not to tell him that you’ve seen me—yes, I’m sure it’s best not. Then I’ll speak to him about granting the men’s demands. I’ll put my foot down; so will Monkton. We’ll be firm with him.” The old man glanced timidly over his shoulder. “We’ll say to him that we’ve stood at his back about Gibbons, and now he must settle at once with the men when they’ve abandoned Gibbons. Why will he not see Gibbons, do you know? Has he a personal dislike to the man?”
“Oh, no. It is a matter of principle with Mr. Sartwell. Gibbons is not one of your workmen.”
“Ah yes, yes. I remember now. That’s exactly what Sartwell said. Well, I’m very much obliged to you for coming, and I hope these awful occurrences are at an end. Good-by! There’s a train in half an hour that stops at Wimbledon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hope, but I’m on foot to-day.”
“Bless me, it’s a long distance and roundabout by road. The train will get you there in a few minutes.”