“Do you think you could drive a man like Mr. Coddington that way?” It was Carmachel who spoke. “You can walk out, all of you, if you choose. It would make no difference to him. If he has decided it is best to put up that tannery he’ll put it up. A strike would do you no good and as a result your families would be without food and a roof over their heads all winter. You’re a fine man, Ristori! Coddington pays you well. You take his money and are glad to get a job from him; then the first minute anything does not go to suit you you turn against him and cry: Strike! You don’t know what loyalty means. Hasn’t Coddington always been square with you? Hasn’t he paid you good wages? Hasn’t he added an extra bit to your envelope at Christmas? I’ll not strike!”
“What would you have us do?” was Ristori’s hot retort. “Would you have us sit by like dumb things and let him do anything to us he pleases?”
“Coddington is a reasonable man,” Carmachel replied. “Why don’t some of you talk decently with him about all this?”
“Aye! And lose our jobs for our pains!” sneered a swarthy Armenian.
A shout went up.
“A strike! A strike!” yelled a hundred voices.
“Would you strike and see your families starve?” cried Nat Jackson. “I have a mother to support. I care more for her than for the field and everything on it. I shall not strike.”
“You white-livered young idiot!” roared some one in the crowd.
“I tell you, men,” went on Carmachel, “there is nothing to be gained by striking. Get together some of your best speakers from each factory and let them ask an interview of Mr. Coddington—now—this afternoon—before anything more is done about the new factory.”
“He’ll not grant it!”