An oldish, smallish man looked at him and at his overalls, and grinned.

“New man?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Thought them overalls wasn’t long off the shelf.  You done a good job, though, considerin’.”

Bonbright blushed.

“Where you been workin’?”

How was Bonbright to answer?  He couldn’t tell the truth without shaming himself in this man’s eyes, and all at once he found he greatly desired the good opinion of this workingman and of the other workingmen about him.

“I—­The last place I worked was Bonbright Foote, Incorporated,” he said, giving his father’s institution its full name.

“Urn. ...  Strikin’, eh?”

Bonbright nodded.  He had struck.  Not with a union, but as an individual.

“’Bout over, hain’t it, from all I hear tell?”

“I think so,” said Bonbright.

“Bad business. ...  Strikes is always bad—­especially if the men git licked.  Unions hain’t no business to call strikes without some show of winnin’.. ...  The boys talk that this strike never had no chance from the beginnin’. ...  I don’t think a heap of that Foote outfit.”

“Why?”

“Rotten place to work, I hear.  A good machinist can’t take no pleasure there, what with one thing and another.  Out-of-date machines, and what not. ...  That young Foote, the cub, is a hell winder, they say.  Ever see him?”

“I’ve seen him.”

“His father was bad enough, by all accounts.  But this kid goes him one better.  Wonder some of them strikers didn’t git excited and make him acquainted with a brick.  I’ve heard of fightin’ strikes hard—­but never nothin’ like this one.  Seems like this kid’s a hard one.  Wants to smash hell out of the men just to see them smash. ...  How’d he strike you?”

“I was sorry for him,” said Bonbright, simply.

“Sorry?...  What’s the idea?”

“I—­I don’t believe he did what people believe.  He didn’t really have anything to do with the business, you know.  He didn’t count. ...  All the things that he was said to do—­he didn’t do at all.  His father did them and let the men think it was his son.”

“Sounds fishy—­but if it’s so somebody ought to lambaste the old man.  He sure got his son in bad. ...  What’s this I hear about him marryin’ some girl and gettin’ kicked out?”

“That’s true,” said Bonbright.

“Huh!...  Wonder what he’ll do without his pa.  Them kind hain’t much good, I notice. ...  Maybe he’s well fixed himself, though.”

“He hasn’t a cent,” said Bonbright.

“Appears like you know a heap about him. ...  Maybe you know what he’s doin’ now?”

“Working.”

“Friends give him a soft job?”

“He’s working in a—­machine shop,” said Bonbright.

“G’wan,” said the man, incredulously.  Then he looked sharply at Bonbright, at his new overalls, back again at his face.

“What’s your name?” he asked, suspiciously.