He was recognized.  Here and there a man offered him good morning with a friendliness of tone that surprised Bonbright.  A good many men spoke to him respectfully; more regarded him curiously; some hopefully.  It was the occasional friendly smile that affected him.  One such smile from an older workman, a man of intelligent face, of shrewd, gray eyes, caused Bonbright to move from his place to the man’s side.

“I don’t know your name, of course,” he said, diffidently.

“Hooper,” said the man, pleasantly.

“The men seem to know me,” Bonbright said.  “I was a little surprised.  I only came yesterday, you know.”

“Yes,” said Hooper, “they know who you are.”

“They seemed—–­almost friendly.”

Hooper looked sharply at the young man.  “It’s because,” said he, “they’re pinning hopes to you.”

“Hopes?”

“Labor can’t get anywhere until it makes friends in the ranks of the employers,” said Hooper.  “I guess most of the men don’t understand that—­even most of the leaders, but it’s so.  It’s got to be so if we get what we must have without a revolution.”

Bonbright pondered this.  “The men think I may be their friend?”

“Some saw you last night, and some heard you talk to Dulac.  Most of them have heard about it now.”

“That was it?...  Thank you, Mr. Hooper.”

Bonbright went up to his office, where he stood at the window, looking down upon the thickening stream of men as the minute for the starting whistle approached. ...  So he was of some importance, in the eyes of the workingmen, at least!  They saw hope in his friendship. ...  He shrugged his shoulders.  What could his friendship do for them?  He was impotent to help or harm.  Bitterly he thought that if the men wanted friendship that would be worth anything to them, they should cultivate his dead forbears.

Presently he turned to his desk and wrote some personal letters—­as a distraction.  He did not know what else to do.  There was nothing connected with the plant that he could set his hand to.  It seemed to him he was just present, like a blank wall, whose reason for existence was merely to be in a certain place.

He was conscious of voices in his father’s room, and after a time his father entered and bade him a formal good morning.  Bonbright was acutely conscious of his father’s distinguished, cultured, aristocratic appearance.  He was conscious of that manner which six generations of repression and habit in a circumscribed orbit had bestowed on Bonbright Foote VI.  Bonbright was unconscious of the great likeness between him and his father; of the fact that at his father’s age it would be difficult to tell them apart.  Physically he was out of the Bonbright Foote mold.

“Son,” said Bonbright Foote VI, “you have made an unfortunate beginning here.  You have created an impression which we shall have to eradicate promptly.”

“I don’t understand.”