The morning after the surrender the gates stood invitingly open, and black smoke poured from the tall chimneys. The women and girls, who worked on the upper floors, were the first to come, and their pale faces turned in a look of mute thankfulness towards the banner of smoke flying above them like a signal of rescue. They had had no voice in bringing on the strike, and no voice in its cessation. No one during its continuance had been anxious to know whether they lived or died when strike pay ceased. Before the day was done, work was going as smoothly as if nothing had happened. The men were at first afraid that Sartwell might pick and choose among them, and that some of them might be marked men because of what had been done on the day of the riot, but it soon became evident that no distinction was to be made. Just as the men had settled down to a comfortable frame of mind regarding the point that had given them anxiety, they were startled from their complacency by an unexpected incident. Marsten was discharged. On the first regular pay-day the young man received what was due him, and a month’s money besides. The cashier told him that his services would no longer be required in the factory. Marsten was so dazed by this unexpected intimation that he asked for no explanation, but walked away with his money in his hand. He knew well why he had been so unceremoniously dismissed, but it seemed to him unfair that the manager should use his power against him for what was entirely a personal quarrel, and not through any fault in his work. He counted the money automatically three or four times, without the process conveying to his mind anything definite about the sum that had been paid him. At last he noticed that Sartwell had apparently ordered four times as much to be given him as was legally his due with a notice to quit. Marsten went back to the cashier and said: “There’s a month’s money here: I am only entitled to a week’s notice.” “You’d better keep what you’ve got,” replied the cashier. “I was told to pay you a month’s wages and discharge you. The money isn’t mine; it’s yours, and you’re a fool if you part with it for nothing.” “I’ll take only what is my due,” said Marsten. “Give the remainder to Mr. Sartwell, and tell him I want none of his generosity.” “It’s no affair of mine,” remarked the cashier. “I suppose you know what the trouble is--I don’t. If you are wise you won’t send any such message to the manager, but you will go quietly and see him. Perhaps a few words of explanation will set matters right; anyhow, nothing is to be gained by flying into a temper about it. That isn’t the way to get back into the works.” “I’m not in a temper,” replied Marsten, “and I’m not going back into the works--no, not if Sartwell asks me to. You may tell him that when I come back it will be as master of these shops, with his power broken--you tell him that.”