One of the men, sturdy and dark-browed, steps forward, clears his throat, and with a half-surly inclination of the head begins, "Mr. Grandon," and then something intangible awes him a trifle. They may grumble among themselves, and lately they have found it easy to complain to Mr. Wilmarth, but the unconscious air of authority, the superior breeding, and fine, questioning eyes disconcert the man, who pulls himself together with the certainty that this gentleman, aristocrat as he is, has no right to set himself at the head of the business and tie every one's hands. "Mr. Grandon," with a sort of rough, sullen courage, "me and my mates here are tired of the way things are going on. We can't work under the new man. We never had a day's trouble with Mr. Brent, who understood his business. We want to know if he is coming back at the end of the month; if not----" "Well, if he is not, what then?" The words ring out clear and incisive. "Then," angrily, "we'll quit! We've resolved not to work under the new one. Either he goes or we will." "He will not go out until I am quite ready." "Then, mates, we will knock off. We're willing to come to any reasonable terms, Mr. Grandon, and do our best, but we won't stand false accusations, and we're tired of this sort of thing." Floyd Grandon would give a good deal for a glance into the face of Rising or Lindmeyer as inspiration for his next word. It is really a step in the dark, but he is bound to stand by them. "Very well," he replies. "When two parties cannot get along amicably, it is best to separate." The men seem rather nonplussed, not expecting so brief and decisive a result. They turn lingeringly, stare at each other, and march toward Wilmarth's office. Grandon goes straight to the workroom. Half a dozen men are still at their looms. "O Mr. Grandon!" begins Rising, with a face of the utmost anxiety, but Lindmeyer has a half-smile on his lips as he advances, which breaks into an unmirthful laugh. "Quite a strike or an insurrection, with some muttered thunder! I hope you let them go; it will be a good day's work if you have." "What was the trouble?" Grandon's spirits rise a trifle. "The machinery and the new looms have been tampered with continually, just enough to keep everything out of gear. Nearly every improvement, you know, has to fight its way through opposition in the beginning. The men declare themselves innocent, and puzzled over it, but it certainly has been done. There are five excellent weavers left, Rising says." "I would rather go on with just those a few days, until I am able to decide two or three points. And if you don't object, I should like to remain here at night." "And we shall need a watchman. A little preventive, you know, is better than a great deal of cure."