Wanklin.  What!  In the close season?

Wilder.  By George, there was no close season for employers then!  He used to go down to his office with a pistol in his pocket.

Scantlebury. [Faintly alarmed.] Not seriously?

Wilder. [With finality.] Ended in his shootin’ one of ’em in the legs.

Scantlebury. [Unavoidably feeling his thigh.] No?  Which?

Anthony. [Lifting the agenda paper.] To consider the policy of the Board in relation to the strike. [There is a silence.]

Wilder.  It’s this infernal three-cornered duel—­the Union, the men, and ourselves.

Wanklin.  We need n’t consider the Union.

Wilder.  It’s my experience that you’ve always got to, consider the Union, confound them!  If the Union were going to withdraw their support from the men, as they’ve done, why did they ever allow them to strike at all?

Edgar.  We’ve had that over a dozen times.

Wilder.  Well, I’ve never understood it!  It’s beyond me.  They talk of the engineers’ and furnace-men’s demands being excessive—­so they are—­but that’s not enough to make the Union withdraw their support.  What’s behind it?

Underwood.  Fear of strikes at Harper’s and Tinewell’s.

Wilder. [With triumph.] Afraid of other strikes—­now, that’s a reason!  Why could n’t we have been told that before?

Underwood.  You were.

Tench.  You were absent from the Board that day, sir.

Scantlebury.  The men must have seen they had no chance when the
Union gave them up.  It’s madness.

Underwood.  It’s Roberts!

Wilder.  Just our luck, the men finding a fanatical firebrand like
Roberts for leader. [A pause.]

Wanklin. [Looking at Anthony.] Well?

Wilder. [Breaking in fussily.] It’s a regular mess.  I don’t like the position we’re in; I don’t like it; I’ve said so for a long time. [Looking at Wanklin.] When Wanklin and I came down here before Christmas it looked as if the men must collapse.  You thought so too, Underwood.

Underwood.  Yes.

Wilder.  Well, they haven’t!  Here we are, going from bad to worse losing our customers—­shares going down!

Scantlebury. [Shaking his head.] M’m!  M’m!

Wanklin.  What loss have we made by this strike, Tench?

Tench.  Over fifty thousand, sir!

Scantlebury, [Pained.] You don’t say!

Wilder.  We shall never got it back.

Tench.  No, sir.

Wilder.  Who’d have supposed the men were going to stick out like this—­nobody suggested that. [Looking angrily at Tench.]

Scantlebury. [Shaking his head.] I’ve never liked a fight—­never shall.