“To the papers?” said Marsten, astonished.
The old man looked at him in alarm.
“I didn’t intend to mention that. As you say, it might be misunderstood—misunderstood. The world seems to be made up of misunderstandings, but you’ll not say anything about it, will you? I did it in a roundabout way, so as not to cause any ill feeling, under the name of ‘Well-wisher,’ Merely trifles, you know; trifles, now and then. Sartwell said the strike would end in a fortnight or three weeks. He’s a clever man, Sartwell—a clever man—but was mistaken in that. We all make mistakes one time or another. I wouldn’t care for him to know, you see, that I contributed anonymously to the strike fund; he might think it prolonged the strike, and perhaps it did—perhaps it did. It is difficult to say what one’s duty is in a case like this—very difficult. So perhaps it is best to mention this to no one.”
“I shall never breathe a word about it, Mr. Hope.”
“That’s right—that’s right. I am very glad you came, and I’ll speak to Sartwell about you when we get in running order again. Now just come out by the front door this time, and when you speak to Mr. Sartwell be careful not to say anything that might appear to criticise his actions in any way. Don’t cross him—don’t cross him. The easiest way is generally the best. If any one has to put a foot down, leave that to me—leave that to me.”
The manufacturer himself let his employee out by the front entrance, and the young man walked briskly to Surbiton Station.
CHAPTER XV.
When young Marsten reached the walled-in house at Wimbledon, he found that Sartwell had indeed paid little attention to the wishes of his chief, and had left for the works at his usual hour in the morning. Mr. Hope had evidently not put his foot down firmly enough when he told the manager not to go to his office next day.