“What kind of reporting?”

“Quite simple.  A manufacturing concern in which I own a considerable interest has a strike on its hands.  Suppose you go down to Sippiac, New Jersey, where our factories are, spend three or four days, and report back to me your impressions and any ideas you may gather as to improving our organization for furthering our interests.”

“What makes you think that I could be useful in that line?” asked Banneker curiously.

“My observations at the Manzanita wreck.  You have, I believe, a knack for handling a situation.”

“I can always try,” accepted Banneker.

Supplied with letters to the officials of the International Cloth Company, and a liberal sum for expenses, the neophyte went to Sippiac.  There he visited the strongly guarded mills, still making a feeble pretense of operating, talked with the harassed officials, the gang-boss of the strike-breakers, the “private guards,” who had, in fact, practically assumed dominant police authority in the place; all of which was faithful to the programme arranged by Mr. Vanney.  Having done so much, he undertook to obtain a view of the strike from the other side; visited the wretched tenements of the laborers, sought out the sullen and distrustful strike-leaders, heard much fiery oratory and some veiled threats from impassioned agitators, mostly foreign and all tragically earnest; chatted with corner grocerymen, saloon-keepers, ward politicians, composing his mental picture of a strike in a minor city, absolutely controlled, industrially, politically, and socially by the industry which had made it.  The town, as he came to conceive it, was a fevered and struggling gnome, bound to a wheel which ground for others; a gnome who, if he broke his bonds, would be perhaps only the worse for his freedom.  At the beginning of the sixth day, for his stay had outgrown its original plan, the pocket-ledger, 3 T 9901, was but little the richer, but the mind of its owner teemed with impressions.

It was his purpose to take those impressions in person to Mr. Horace Vanney, by the 10 A.M. train.  Arriving at the station early, he was surprised at being held up momentarily by a line of guards engaged in blocking off a mob of wailing, jabbering women, many of whom had children in their arms, or at their skirts.  He asked the ticket-agent, a big, pasty young man about them.

“Mill workers,” said the agent, making change.

“What are they after?”

“Wanta get to the 10.10 train.”

“And the guards are stopping them?”

“You can use your eyes, cantcha?”

Using his eyes, Banneker considered the position.  “Are those fellows on railroad property?”

“What is it to you whether they are or ain’t?”

Banneker explained his former occupation.  “That’s different,” said the agent.  “Come inside.  That’s a hell of a mess, ain’t it!” he added plaintively as Banneker complied.  “Some of those poor Hunkies have got their tickets and can’t use ’em.”