CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Again it was the last train to Wimbledon; but Sartwell, tired as he was, strode home from the station with the springy step of a young man. Edna, waiting for her father in spite of his prohibition, heard the step with a thrill of hope. When he came in, there was a smile on his face such as she had not seen for weeks.
“Ah, my girl,” he cried, “you can never guess what has happened!”
“Yes, I can,” she answered; “Marsten has ended the strike.”
“No, the strike has ended Marsten. He has been deposed, and Gibbons has been elected in his place. Gibbons, unselfish man, at once came to me to make terms for himself. So the works will be open to-morrow; and when the next strike comes, let us hope, unlike John Gilpin, I won’t be there to see.”
“And what does Mr. Marsten say to this sudden change?”
“I didn’t see him. I suppose he has gone to his room to meditate on the mutability of the workingman.”
“I am glad you didn’t send that letter.”
“Ah, but the funny thing about it is that I did send it. My commissionaire is probably at this moment scouring London to find Marsten and get it back. It would be rather a turning of the tables if Marsten, in revenge, were to publish the letter. I don’t think he will do it, but one can never tell. I confess it would be a strong temptation to me, were I in his place; however, I hope for the best, and have charged the commissionaire to get him to do nothing about it until after he has seen me.”
“Do you still intend to offer him a place in the works?”