“If my comrades go, I’ll go with them. I am not so sure that a strike is bound to fail, although I am against it. The Union is very strong, Mr. Sartwell. Perhaps you do not know that it is the strongest Union in London.”
The manager allowed his hand to hover for a moment over a nest of pigeon-holes, then he drew out a paper and handed it to Marsten.
“There is the strength of the Union,” he said, “down to the seventeen pounds eight shillings and twopence they put in the bank yesterday afternoon. If you want any information about your Union, Marsten, I shall be happy to oblige you with it.”
The young man opened his eyes as he looked at the figures.
“It is a very large sum,” he said.
“A respectable fighting fund,” remarked Sartwell, impartially. “But how many Saturdays do you think it would stand the drain of the pay-roll of this establishment?”
“Not very many perhaps.”
“It would surprise you to know how few. The men look at one side of this question only, while I am compelled to look at two sides. If any Saturday their pay was not forthcoming, they would not be pleased, would they? Now I have to scheme and plan so that the money is there every Saturday, and besides there must be enough more to pay the firm for its investment and its risk. These little details may not seem important to a demagogue who knows nothing of business, but who can harangue a body of men and make them dissatisfied. I should be very pleased to give him my place here for a month or two while I took a rest, and then we would see whether he thought there was anything in my point of view.”
“Mr. Sartwell,” said Marsten, looking suddenly at the manager, “some of the more moderate men asked me to-night a similar question to one of yours.”
“What question was that?”