He returned to his editorial. But the savor of the work had gone. He was too deeply preoccupied with what had happened upstairs. That was Galpin’s department; he made it a practice not to interfere. Yet, until the last run was off the presses and the machinery was silenced, he sat, intent and speculating.
The clang of a gong sounded outside. From his window he caught a glimpse of a departing ambulance. Was there some connection between that and the turmoil above? The men had not come down, though it was past time. He decided to go to the press-room and investigate.
On the top step he stopped short. Somebody was making a speech. Surely that was Nick Milliken’s voice—Milliken, who had been threatened with arrest if he returned! Milliken’s voice and Milliken’s propaganda, for he was saying:
“Some day we’ll own this stick-in-the-mud old plant, all of us together. We’ll own it and run it for the common good and the common profit. Some day we’ll own all production, and run it for the common good and the common profit! That’ll come. But that ain’t our job now, comrades. We’ve got something else on hand, first.”
The editor and owner of the plant, thus cavalierly committed to common control, laid his hand on the knob of the door, but paused to hear the speaker’s next words:
“Now about this strike: I’m for the strike. I’m for any strike—at the right time. But this ain’t the time. Lemme give you a little parable, comrades.”
Jeremy sat upon the top step and listened to the parable of Milliken, the Socialist. When it was over he tiptoed quietly down the stairs and into his own office. There he lay in wait until he heard the meeting break up and the tramp of descending feet. Standing sentry, he intercepted the speaker and called him into the sanctum.
“Will you come back to the job?” said Jeremy.
“Sure!” returned the other. He was spent and haggard, but his eyes were alight with triumph. “I was never off it.”
“I heard your speech—part of it—enough so I knew I had you wrong.”