Braunt ate his food and drank his beer, but made no reply. The barman’s attitude was commercially correct; no one could justly find fault with it. Money was the master-key of the universe; it unlocked all doors. The barman did not care how Braunt came by it, so long as he paid for what was ordered; and the workman now found that courage was taking the place of despair, merely because he had money in his pocket. He felt that now he had energy enough to cope with the strikers, simply because he had fed while they were hungry. He would wait for no meeting, but would harangue the men on the street, those of them that were assembled in futile numbers around the closed gates, and most of them were sure to be there. If Gibbons opposed, he would settle the question by promptly and conclusively knocking him down--an argument easily comprehended by all onlookers. Braunt drew the back of his hand across his lips when he had finished his meal, and departed for the works. He found, as he expected, the despondent men standing there, with hands hopelessly thrust deep in their empty pockets. Their pipes were as smokeless as the tall chimneys of the factory, and that of itself showed that their condition was at its lowest ebb. They were listening with listless indifference to a heated altercation going on between Gibbons and Marsten, as if the subject discussed did not concern them. “You might have played that card last week,” Marsten cried, “but it is too late now. You can have no conference with the owners. I tell you they have left the country, and won’t return for a fortnight, and by that time the works will be filled with new men. The new men are coming in on Monday. I demand that the committee call a meeting now and that a vote be taken.” “Don’t mind him, men!” cried Gibbons. “He’s in Sartwell’s pay.” The men didn’t mind him, and paid no attention to Gibbons either. What they wanted was something to eat and drink, with tobacco to smoke afterwards. If Marsten was in Sartwell’s pay, they would gladly have changed places with him. Braunt made his way roughly through the crowd, elbowing the men rudely aside. None resented this; all the fight had gone out of them. Marsten seemed on the point of attacking Gibbons for the slanderous remark made, when he felt Braunt’s heavy hand on his shoulder. “The time is past for meetings, lad,” said the big man, “and for talk too. The meeting’s here, and Ah’ll deal with it. Stop bothering with that fool, and stand among the crowd, ready to back me up if need be.” Marsten at once did as requested, while Braunt strode across the open space, in spite of the warning of a policeman to stand back. Few of the force were on the ground; the authorities saw there was little to fear from cowed and beaten men. “You’ll have to stand back,” said the officer, “or I’ll take you in charge.”