A few days after the announcement of the reduction in strike pay had been made, Sartwell, approaching the gates in the morning, saw Marsten standing alone at the street corner. The manager had almost passed him without greeting on either side, when the elder man suddenly stopped, turned half around, and said sharply: “On picket duty, Marsten?” “No, Mr. Sartwell.” “Not in their confidence, perhaps.” “I suppose I am neither in their confidence, nor in yours, Mr. Sartwell.” “Rather an uncomfortable position, is it not? I should like to be one thing or the other if I were in your place, Marsten.” “I am one thing. I am entirely with the men.” “Perhaps in that case you are afraid to be seen talking with me. Some of the men might happen to pass this way.” “I am not afraid to be seen speaking with anybody, Mr. Sartwell.” “Ah, you are young; therefore you are brave. I have known a smaller thing than this conversation to cost a man his life, but perhaps times and methods have changed since my early days. It is a pity you are on the wrong side for your bravery to be appreciated. The masters of this world always value talent and courage, and pay well for them. The men do neither. That is why they are usually beaten in a fight, and it is one of the many reasons why they should be. I have a few words to say to you; the street corner is not a good place for a private conversation; will you come to my office in an hour’s time?” “Do you wish to speak about the strike?” “Yes,” said Sartwell, looking with some intentness at the young man. “We have no other subject of mutual interest that I know of.” “Very good. I merely asked, because whatever you may have to tell me, I shall use in the interests of the men.” Sartwell shrugged his shoulders. “You are quite welcome,” he said, “to make what use you please of the information I shall give you. I am well aware that your advice is in demand by the men and their leaders.” The elder man walked briskly on; the younger reddened at the covert sneer in his last remark. “My God,” he said to himself, angrily, “I would like to fight that man.” Marsten turned and walked rapidly to the strike headquarters. There he found Gibbons and the committee in consultation, while a few of the men lounged about the place. The talk ceased as Marsten entered the room, the committee and its chairman looking loweringly at him. “What do you want?” asked Gibbons, shortly. “I met Mr. Sartwell a moment ago in the street and he said he had something to tell me about the strike; he asked me to call at his office in an hour’s time. I promised to do so, but told him any information he gave me I should use in the interests of the men.” “And so you came here, I suppose, to get some information to give in return?”