“It did the business. The strike’s spoiled.”
“Off?”
“Might as well be. There’ll be six or seven Germans quit. But they can’t do much without Girdner. He’s the one that’s been playing merry hell with the whole show.”
“Where’s Girdner?”
“Hospital.”
“What happened to him?”
“He fell downstairs,” said Milliken casually but happily.
“Oh! Unassisted?”
“He threw me out of the meeting. Easy picking for him. You’d be surprised to see how quick he hustled me through the door,” said the other regretfully. “He might have hurt me bad; I would n’t be surprised. He was real rough with me. Then, just as we got to the top of the stairs, one of my arms took to flopping round kind of general, and he got hit on the jaw. Queer how things come back to you!” observed the white-haired Socialist, with surpassing innocence. “It never came into my mind till then that I once spent two years in a fighters’ stable.”
“I see,” said. Jeremy thoughtfully. “No—I don’t know. I thought you Socialists—”