“Some day we’ll own this stick-in-the-mud old plant, all of us together. We’ll own it and run it for the common good and the common profit. Some day we’ll own all production, and run it for the common good and the common profit! That’ll come. But that ain’t our job now, comrades. We’ve got something else on hand, first.” The editor and owner of the plant, thus cavalierly committed to common control, laid his hand on the knob of the door, but paused to hear the speaker’s next words: “Now about this strike: I’m for the strike. I’m for any strike--at the right time. But this ain’t the time. Lemme give you a little parable, comrades.” Jeremy sat upon the top step and listened to the parable of Milliken, the Socialist. When it was over he tiptoed quietly down the stairs and into his own office. There he lay in wait until he heard the meeting break up and the tramp of descending feet. Standing sentry, he intercepted the speaker and called him into the sanctum. “Will you come back to the job?” said Jeremy. “Sure!” returned the other. He was spent and haggard, but his eyes were alight with triumph. “I was never off it.” “I heard your speech--part of it--enough so I knew I had you wrong.” “It did the business. The strike’s spoiled.” “Off?” “Might as well be. There’ll be six or seven Germans quit. But they can’t do much without Girdner. He’s the one that’s been playing merry hell with the whole show.” “Where’s Girdner?” “Hospital.” “What happened to him?” “He fell downstairs,” said Milliken casually but happily. “Oh! Unassisted?” “He threw me out of the meeting. Easy picking for him. You’d be surprised to see how quick he hustled me through the door,” said the other regretfully. “He might have hurt me bad; I would n’t be surprised. He was real rough with me. Then, just as we got to the top of the stairs, one of my arms took to flopping round kind of general, and he got hit on the jaw. Queer how things come back to you!” observed the white-haired Socialist, with surpassing innocence. “It never came into my mind till then that I once spent two years in a fighters’ stable.” “I see,” said. Jeremy thoughtfully. “No--I don’t know. I thought you Socialists--” “I thought you capitalists--” interrupted the other with instant retort. Jeremy laughed. “I guess you were an American before you were a Socialist.” “When I can’t be both I’ll quit being either,” answered the other fiercely. “I do see!” said the other. “You’re in that same trench with Judge Dana, where it makes no difference who or what a man is so long as he fights on the level and to a finish.” “I guess I am--comrade!” said Milliken, the Socialist. CHAPTER XIX