Roger admired his father with a blind idolatry that was quite foreign to his ordinary mental attitude. He was naturally critical of men and things. To be a forge boy in his father's factory was to Roger to be touching the skirts of real greatness. "Father," he said one night at supper, "I had a row with Ole Oleson to-day." "Which Ole Oleson?" asked his father. "There are nine of them in the factory." "The second forge foreman. His girl Olga is in my grade at school." His father nodded. "What was the row about? As I warned you, Rog, if I catch you with the lid off that temper of yours, I'll treat you exactly as I would any other employee." "But you didn't catch me, this time!" Roger grinned. He had fine white teeth and his eyes were still the wonderful sky blue of his childhood. "Ole said you were as hard as one of the plowshares and that some day the men would soften you like they take temper out of steel and that then you'd never be any good again." John Moore snorted. "And you let the fool get a rise out of you, of course!" "I knocked him down." "And what did he do?" "He knocked me down." "Then what?" asked Moore. "We shook hands and went to work again." Roger grinned at his mother's horrified face. "I'd have fired you both if I'd seen it," said his father. "You were late again this morning, Son. Remember you're docked for that." "Anyhow," Roger went on without noting apparently his father's warning, "he got confidential, while we were eating dinner, and told me that if you didn't give them an increase they were going on a strike that would make you sit up and take notice. He says you won't give the increase so the strike's due about the middle of July." "Oh, the fools!" exclaimed John Moore. "I can't have a strike now with that big Russian order to fill. That order makes or mars me." "Then you'll give 'em the raise! That's good!" Roger gave a sigh of relief. "Raise nothing! Why, I can't raise them! Roger, you're old enough to begin to understand these things. The only way I'm able to compete with the trust is by working on such a narrow margin of profit that it makes their overhead look like Standard Oil profits. So far they've let my patents alone, chiefly, I suppose, because my machinery is efficient only for the comparatively small output. I never have been able to accumulate much working capital. A protracted strike would put me out of business. On the other hand a material increase in wage would kill that Russian contract and I've already borrowed money on it." "Roger, you shouldn't have told your father that when he was tired," said Mrs. Moore, handing her husband his third cup of tea. "Don't be a goose, Alice," returned Roger's father. "What are they going to ask for, Son?" "A minimum of three dollars a day and eight hours." "Then I'm finished!" exclaimed Moore, setting his lips. "Why don't you tell them when they come to you just what you've told me?" asked Roger. "They'll understand."