“Yes, sir. ...  Anyhow, Mr. Foote, he couldn’t be bought.”

“Yes. ...  Yes.  Well, we’ll have to continue along the lines we’ve been following.  They have been not unsuccessful.”

“True enough.  It’s just a question of time now.  It might do some good, Mr. Foote, to have the rumor get about that we wouldn’t take back any men who did not apply for reinstatement before the end of next week. ...  There’s considerable discontent, due largely to insufficient nourishment.  Yes, we can lay it to that, I imagine.  It’s this man Dulac that holds the strike together.  If only every laboring man had a dozen babies there’d be less strikes,” Rangar finished, not exactly callously, but in a matter-of-fact way.  If he had thought of it he might have added, “and a sick wife.”  Rangar would not have hesitated to provide each striker with the babies and the wife, purely as a strike-breaking measure, if he could have managed the matter.

“They’re improvident,” said Mr. Foote, sagaciously.  “If they must strike and cut off their earnings every so often, why don’t they lay up savings to carry them through?”

“They seem to have the notion, sir, that they don’t earn enough to save.  That, while it isn’t their main grievance, is an important one.  But the idiots put nonsensical, immaterial grievances ahead of money matters mostly. ...  Rights!  Rights to do this or not to do that—­to organize or to sit at board meetings.  They’re not practical, Mr. Foote.  If it was just money they wanted we might get on with them.  It’s men like this Dulac putting notions into their heads that they haven’t brains enough to think of themselves.  Social revolution, you know—­that sort of thing.”

“Do what you like about it.  You might have notices tacked up outside the gates stating that we wouldn’t take back men who weren’t back by the date you named.  And, Rangar, be sure Mr. Bonbright’s name is signed to it.  I want to rid the men thoroughly of any absurd ideas about him.”

“You have, sir.  If Dulac is a fair sample, you have.  Why, he seems regularly to hate Mr. Bonbright.  Called him names, and that sort of thing. ...  Maybe, though, there’s something personal mixed up in it.”

“That girl? ...”

“Very likely, sir.”

“You know her, Rangar.  She worked under you.  What sort of girl is she? ...  I mean would you consider it wise to approach her with a proposition—­delicately put, of course—­to—­say—­move to another city, or something of the sort?”

“My observation of her—­while not close—­(you understand I have little opportunity for close observations of unimportant subordinates)—­was that it would be unwise and—­er—­futile.  She seemed to have quite a will.  Indeed, I may say she seemed stubborn ... and no fool.  If she’s got a chance at Mr. Bonbright she wouldn’t give it up for a few dollars.  Not her, sir.”

“I don’t recall her especially.  Small—­was she not?  Not the—­ah—­ ripe—­rounded type to attract a boy?  Eh?”