The elder man walked briskly on; the younger reddened at the covert sneer in his last remark.
“My God,” he said to himself, angrily, “I would like to fight that man.”
Marsten turned and walked rapidly to the strike headquarters. There he found Gibbons and the committee in consultation, while a few of the men lounged about the place. The talk ceased as Marsten entered the room, the committee and its chairman looking loweringly at him.
“What do you want?” asked Gibbons, shortly.
“I met Mr. Sartwell a moment ago in the street and he said he had something to tell me about the strike; he asked me to call at his office in an hour’s time. I promised to do so, but told him any information he gave me I should use in the interests of the men.”
“And so you came here, I suppose, to get some information to give in return?”
Marsten had resolved not to allow himself to be taunted into anger, but he saw he had no easy task before him. He was going to do his duty, he said to himself, and help his comrades if he could; the situation was too serious for recrimination.
“No. I shall tell him nothing. If he wants information I shall refer him to you. I thought he perhaps might say something that would be of value for us to know, and so I came to tell you that I am going to his office.”
“Us? Who do you mean by us?”
“The men on strike. I am on strike as well as the others. I have lost a situation, even if you haven’t,” retorted the young man, knowing as he spoke that he was not keeping to his resolution.