“Oh, no, you’re not.”
“It’s all right, mate; I’ve just come from headquarters. I am going with the committee’s consent and Gibbons’s permission.”
“What’s on?” asked the picket in a whisper, while others of the strikers crowded around.
“Is the jig up? Are we going to give in?”
“There’s nothing new. I’ll know more when I come out. Perhaps Sartwell has something to propose; we haven’t.”
The men drew back, with a simultaneous sigh that may have indicated relief, or perhaps disappointment. The sternness of their resolution to hold out did not increase under reduced strike pay. Their organization was disintegrating, rotting; each man knew it and was suspicious of his comrades. The heart had gone out of the fight.
Marsten, crossing the deserted and silent yard, mounted the stairs, and rapped at the manager’s door. He found Sartwell alone, standing at his desk, with some papers before him.
“Now, Marsten,” began the manager brusquely, turning from his desk, “you think I’ve asked you here to learn something from you, and you have firmly resolved to tell me nothing. That’s right. I like to see a man stick to his colours. We save the ship if we can; if she sinks we go down with her. You may be surprised then to know that I am not going to ask you a single question. That will relieve your mind and enable you to give full attention to what I have to tell you. I hope, however, that you will keep your word and remember the promise you made me a short time since on the street.”
“What promise?”
“Have you forgotten it? Perhaps you thought it was a threat. You said you would give the men the information you received. I hold you to that. To tell Gibbons is not necessarily to tell the men. You said you would let the men know.”