And then began a period of intense, unremitting work. For beyond the commonplaces of strike organisation, picketing, fund-distribution, speech-making, and the like, the continuous maintenance of the moral strength of a whole community by sheer force of will involved infinite devotion. He had to carry things with a high hand. The Employers’ Federation invited a conference. For a while he had high hopes. The hour came, and the whole town awaited the issue in breathless suspense. Goddard sat alone in the little office of the Union, chafing at his necessary exclusion from the discussion. At last the representatives of the Union returned, the secretary bearing a paper in his hand.
“Shall we agree?” he asked, giving it to Goddard.
He glanced over it, and his face darkened.
“Can I make this public?”
“Certainly, if you think it best,” replied the secretary, with a sigh.
“Thank God, it’s over, any way,” said one of the representatives.
But Goddard did not hear. He flung open the window and brandished the paper before the crowd assembled in the street.
“Men! listen to the result of the conference.”
He read the document in a loud, even voice. The employers had offered a few trivial concessions, a slight rise in skilled wages; but the principles were untouched. He hurried through the last clause; and before there was time for a cry to come from below, he tore the paper across and across with a passionate gesture, and scattered the pieces on the heads of the crowd. The men, who had listened in silent submission to what they thought were the final terms agreed upon, burst into a great cheer. The dramatic touch had quickened the revulsion of feeling.
“There, gentlemen,” said Goddard, turning round to the representatives. “I have burned your ships for you.”