The meal was half finished before he spoke about the matter nearest all their hearts. When he did speak, it was in a very indirect manner. “In this world,” he began quite soberly, “there’s very little real generosity. People who have money cling to it as if it had power to carry them to the very gates of Heaven. Those who have nothing often feel very generous, but have nothing with which to prove the genuineness of their feeling.
“Generosity!” He almost growled. “You read a lot about it in the papers. Capital agrees to do this. Big money is ready to do that. Wages shall be kept up. Those who are in tight places shall be dealt with in a generous fashion. That’s what they give out for publication.
“What they’re really doing, many of them, is undermining the uncertain foothold of those who have very little. They’re cutting wages here, putting on screws there, in secret, wherever they dare. And our friendly enemy, the manager, who wants our light opera, old Mr. Rockledge,” he declared with a flourish, as if to conclude the whole matter, “is no exception.”
“Didn’t he give us a contract?” asked Petite Jeanne, as her eyes opened wide.
“Yes. A contract. But such a contract! He said we could take it or leave it. And old Gray Steel Face nodded his head and snapped his steel jaw shut, so I took it away; but we needn’t sign if we don’t care to.”
The remainder of the meal was eaten for the most part in silence. Just as they finished, Swen and Dan Baker entered. They had been for a long stroll along the lake front, and had dined at a place which Swen had found where they could get genuine black bread and spiced fillet of sole.
“What luck?” Swen demanded.
“Rotten!” Angelo threw the contract on the table. “Read it and weep!” The others crowded around to do so.
A silence, broken only by the rustle of turned pages, ensued.
As the perusal was concluded Jeanne’s face was a brown study. Florence, who had read over her shoulder, was plainly angry. Baker neither smiled nor frowned. Swen smiled.