Factories -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Love stories; Strikes and lockouts -- Fiction
“I should have written days ago, but unfortunately I cannot dictate an
affectionate letter through my shorthand clerk, and the older I grow
the more I dislike writing with my own hand. Worried? Oh, dear no! Why
should one worry? I’m afraid your belligerent old father still loves a
fight, whether with circumstances or with men. Before the fire was
out, telegraphic orders were despatched to three machinery firms in the
North. While the fire-engines were still flinging water on the ruins,
I had secured a lease of the four houses that adjoin the works, had
compounded with the tenants, and sent them packing. That night men were
at work knocking doorways through the partitions and strengthening the
floors. Happily the engines and boilers were not injured, being in a
separate building, and already such machinery as we could get is in
place, and a long, sagging, wobbling iron rope carries the power across
the yard. The new secretary of the Union proposed a conference with me
to discuss what the firm was willing to do for the men thrown out of
work by the fire. I refused to discuss anything with the new secretary,
he not being an employee of mine. He is a shrewder man than Gibbons;
so he at once got up a deputation of my own men and sent them to me. I
received them, of course, and they asked me if I would give them fifteen
per cent of their wages while out of work. ‘No,’ said I, ‘I can always
do better than the Union. There will be paid one hundred per cent of
the wages, not fifteen; I expect you all back at the works on Monday.’
I fancy I made the men open their eyes a bit. Work will be going on as
usual within a week, and we won’t be behind with a single order. The
new factory which is now begun will be built in accordance with modern
ideas, and I expect to be able to increase our business so that the
four houses leased will be retained when the new building is ready for
occupation. Forgive this patting of myself on the shoulder, but a man
must brag now and then to some one, and you, my dear Edna, are the only
one to whom I can boast.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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