Gibbons fidgeted uneasily.
“We all play for our own hand, you know,” the new secretary added, laughing uncomfortably, “and I know that with you it is better to say out what one means.”
“We all play for our own hand,—yes,” said Sartwell, slowly. “Can you end the strike?”
“I think so.”
“You only think so. Well, Mr. Gibbons, come back to me when you are sure, and I will talk to you.”
“I am sure, if it comes to that.”
“Ah, that is a different matter. The meeting, then, after making you secretary, passed a resolution to end the strike?”
“Hardly that, Mr. Sartwell. It has authorized me to negotiate with you. Now, if you promise me the assistant managership, I will bring the men back tomorrow.”
“The strike was bound to end soon without any promises from me. I sent a communication to Mars-ten to-night regarding it. Do you mean to hint that he has not read it to the meeting?”
“He did not. He tried to, but the men had enough of Marsten, and they refused to listen.”